IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


11.25 


I 


I^IM    |Z5 

■50   ^^~     H^H 


'/ 


HiDtographic 

Sdences 

Corporation 


23  WIST  MAIN  STRUT 

WIUTIR.N.Y.  14SM 

(716)  S72-4S03 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Ccnadian  Inttitut*  for  Historical  IMicroraproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  da  microraprodiictions  historiquas 


— «ss^ 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notaa/Notas  tachniquaa  at  bibliographiq  jas 


The  Instituta  has  attamptad  to  obtain  tha  bast 
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copy  which  may  ba  bibliographically  unlqua. 
which  may  altar  any  of  tha  imagas  in  tha 
raproduction.  or  which  may  aignificantly  changa 
tha  usual  mathod  of  filming,  ara  chaclcad  balow. 


D 


n 


□ 


D 


D 


Colourad  covars/ 
Couvartura  da  coulaur 


I      I    Covars  damagad/ 


Couvartura  andommagAa 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurie  at/ou  pelliculAe 


I      I    Cover  title  missing/ 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


Coloured  maps/ 

Cartas  giographiquas  en  couleur 

Coloured  Inic  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  coi  ieur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


I      I    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


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Tight  binding  may  causa  shadows  or  distortion 
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La  re  liure  serrde  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intArieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  tha  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certainas  pages  blanches  ajout6as 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissant  dans  la  taxte. 
mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  filmies. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentairas  supplAmantairas: 


That 
toth 


L'Institut  a  microfilm*  la  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  M  poasibia  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
da  cat  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographiqua,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dana  la  mAthoda  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquAs  ci-dessous. 


I      I   Coloured  pages/ 


n 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagAas 

Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaurias  et/ou  peliiculAes 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  dicolories,  tacheties  ou  piquies 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d^tachias 


Tha 
poas 
of  th 
filmii 


Origi 

bagii 

tha 

sion, 

othai 

firat 

aion, 

or  ill! 


Showthrough/ 
Transparence 


I      I    Quality  of  print  varies/ 


Quality  inAgale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  material  suppl^mantaira 

Only  edition  available/  ' 
Seule  Mition  disponible 


The  I 
shall 
TINU 
whic 

Mapi 
diffei 
entir( 
bagir 
right 
raqui 
math 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalament  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  M  filmies  A  nouveau  de  fa^on  A 
obtanir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  docjment  est  film*  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu*  ci-dessous. 


„  ;■ 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

>/ 

12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


ilaire 
s  details 
que*  du 
It  modifier 
(iger  une 
le  filmage 


The  copy  filmed  here  hae  been  reproduced  thanka 
to  the  generoaity  of: 

Nationai  Library  of  Canada 


The  imagea  appearing  here  are  the  beat  quality 
poaaible  conaidering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  Iceeping  with  the 
filming  contract  apecificationa. 


L'exemplaire  film*  f ut  reproduit  grAce  A  la 
g6n4ro*it4  da: 

BibliothAque  nationale  du  Canada 


Lea  image*  auivante*  ont  6t4  reproduitea  avec  le 
pluo  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettetA  de  rexemplaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  condition*  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


1/ 
u6es 


Original  copie*  in  printed  paper  cover*  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  la*t  page  with  a  printed  or  illuatrated  imprea- 
aion,  or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copiea  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
firat  page  with  a  printed  or  illuatrated  imprea- 
sion,  and  ending  on  the  laat  page  with  a  printed 
or  illuatrated  impreaaion. 


The  laat  recorded  frame  on  aach  microfiche 
ahall  contain  the  aymbol  — ^-  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED "),  or  the  aymbol  y  (niaaning  "END"), 
whichever  appliea. 


Lea  exemplairea  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  eat  imprimte  aont  filmi*  en  commen9ant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  *oit  par  la 
dernlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impreaaion  ou  d'illuatration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  aelon  le  caa.  Toua  lea  autre*  exemplaire* 
originaux  aont  filmfo  en  commengant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impreaaion  ou  d'illuatration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  tellia 
empreinte. 

Un  dea  aymbolea  auivant*  apparaltra  aur  la 
dernlAre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  aelon  le 
ca*:  le  eymbole  — ►  *ignifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
eymboie  V  eignifie  "FIN". 


lire 


Map*,  platea,  charta,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratio*.  Thoaa  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  expoaure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  aa  many  framea  aa 
required.  The  following  diagrama  iiluatrate  the 
method: 


Lea  carte*,  planchaa,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmte  A  dea  taux  de  reduction  different*. 
Lor*que  le  document  e*t  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  aeul  cliche,  il  eat  film6  A  partir 
de  I'angle  *up6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  baa,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'image*  n6ce**aire.  Lea  diagrammes  auivant* 
iiiuatrent  la  m6thode. 


by  errata 
led  to 

Bnt 

ine  pelure, 

apon  d 


1 

2 

3 

32X 


:     1 

? 

3 

■■    4 

►      i 

6 

¥; 


Page  61. 


THE 


¥1  DO  W'S    JEWELS 


BY    A    LADY. 


I  J' 


IN  TWO  STORIES. 


Mil 


BOSTON: 

WAITE,   PEIRCE   &   CO 


No.   1    CORNHILL. 


1844. 


h 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  C3ngres8,  in  the  year  1844, 

Br  Waite,  Peirce  &  Co. 

In  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of 

Massachusetts. 


D.  H.  ELA,  Printer,  37  OemhiU. 


I   \ 


!       1 


lar  1844, 


)istrict  of 


p^^f^f^^t^^*^'* 


The  author  of  this  little  work  was  Mrs.  Han- 
nah Mat>ard  PicKARD,  wife  of  Rev  Humphrey 
Pickard,  of  St  John,  N.  B.,  and  daughter  of 
Mr.  Ebenezer  Thompson,  of  this  city.  She  shone 
in  this  world  as  one  of  the  brightest  **  Jewels  "  of 
nature  and  of  grace.  While  it  has  been  passing 
through  the  press,  she  has  been  suddenly  taken  to 
the  better  world,  to  shine  a ''Jewel"  in  the  Re- 
deemer's crown.  D.  S.  K. 

Boston^  Aprils  1844.  ^ 


i  3 


S  ! 


it 


LiTI 

W 

frien 
ofje 
pear! 
ing 
The: 
aske 
wish 
wai\ 
from 
eyes 
are  i 
Je 
wort 
chos 
king 


't 


(    , 


t- 


INTRODUCTORY. 


f 


Little  Readers, — 

When  a  wealthy  Roman  lady  was  visiting  a  noble 
friend  of  hers,  she  opened  before  her  the  rich  casket 
of  jewels  which  she  possessed.  There  lay  soft,  pure 
pearls,  rosy  rubies,  and  glowing  diamonds,  blend- 
ing their  light  in  brilliant  harmony  and  profusion. 
Their  owner  looked  proudly  up  to  her  friend,  and 
asked  what  she  could  show  to  rival  them.  Without 
wishing  or  attempting  similar  display,  she  calmly 
waived  the  subject  until  her  children  were  returned 
from  school,  then  drawing  them  tOT\  i';ls  her  with 
eyes  beaming  with  love  and  gratitude,  said,  ^^  These 
are  my  Jewels^ 

Jewels,  you  know,  are  beautiful  and  of  great 
worth  —  becoming  gifts  to  kings  and  princes,  and 
chosen  decorations  of  a  crown.  Even  the  King  of 
kings  receives  them  to  ornament  His  glorious  dwell- 


>.' 


r  is 


8 


INTRODUCTORY. 


ing  place,  and  the  Prince  of  Life  will  take  them, 
and  wear  them  in  His  diadem:  —  but  not  those 
sparkling  formations  gathered  from  the  rock,  or 
sand,  or  river's  bed,  which  we  admire  and  prize  so 
much.  In  the  sight  of  God  there  are  gems  of 
greater  price,  and  when  all  else  shall  be  destroyed, 
He  will  reveal,  numbered  among  his  jewels,  those 
children  whose  humble  and  affectionate  hearts  have 
obeyed  Him,  and  dutifully  attended  the  parents  He 
has  given  them. 

To  aid  in  strengthening  upon  your  young  minds 
impressions  of  this  important  duty,  the  writer  has 
collected  from  memory,  and  placed  in  contrast,  the 
incidents  of  the  following  pages,  knowing  that  every 
lesson,  however  simple,  which  you  treasure  up  and 
profit  by,  will  be  imparting  another  ray  of  beauty  to 
"  Jewels"  which  are  to  shine  for  ever  and  ever. in  the 
Paradise  of  God. 

Prayerfully,  your  friend, 

Saint  John,  A*.  B,  H.  M.  P. 


THE  WIDOW'S  JEWELS. 


STORY  I.-ROBERT  M'^COY. 


^^^^^^f^f^i^^^^f^f^^ 


CHAPTER  I. 

**  Good  morning,  my  little  lad,"  said  Mrs. 
Selden  one  day  to  a  young  rosy  cheeked 
boy,  with  curly  hair,  and  full  hazel  eyes. 

"Good  morning,  ma'am,'*  said  he,  with  a 
smile,  at  the  same  time  removing  his  well- 
worn  cap,  and  the  thick,  dark  curls  settled 
lightly  about  his  temples,  adorning  them  with 
beauty  of  which  the  little  possessor  was 
wholly  unconscious. 

**  What  is  your  name?"  she  asked. 

"William,"  he  replied,  "William  Mc- 
Coy." 

"How  old  are  you,  William?" 


ill 

m 


'A\t 


10 


THE    widow's   jewels. 


"Eight  years  old,"  said  he,  still  smiling. 

**  Where  do  you  live?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Selden,  much  interested  by  his  manly  voice 
and  appearance. 

**  With  my  mother,  just  on  the  hill,"  an- 
swered he.  **  Surely  you  know  the  Irish 
woman  who  lives  here  in  St.  John?  She 
attends  meeting  almost  every  Sabbath  at  the 
Methodist  Chapel,  and  belongs  to  Mr. 
Welles'  class.  I  and  my  brother  belong  to 
the  Sabbath  morning  class." 

**  No,  my  dear,  I  have  never  heard  of 
your   mother.     Is   not   your  father  living?" 

**  No,  ma'am,"  said  he,  touching  his  bright 
lips,  while  a  shade  of  seriousness  passed 
across  his  noble  brow;  '*  No,  ma'am,  he  died 
a  long  time  ago,  in  Ireland,  one  gloomy  Sat- 
urday night  it  was." 

**  Do  you  remember  him,  William?" 

**Yes,  a  little;  and  I  remember  the  night 
he  died,  it  rained  so  hard,  and  the  wind  blew 
dreadfully.  It  was  all  dark.  I  remember, 
too,  that  he  kissed  me,  and  his  breath  felt 
cold  upon  my  cheek.  Aunt  Dinah  did  not 
come;  all  night  we  were  there  alone,  and  I 
cried,  for  mother  did.     I  did  not  know  much 


*■■■ 


ROBERT    MCCOY. 


11 


about  it  then,  but  now  I  often  wish  I  had  a 
lather.*' 

**  Perhaps  your  father  is  happy  in  heaven,** 
said  Mrs.  Seldcn,  consolingly,  for  she  pitied 
the  little  one. 

**  Yes,  he  is,  I  know,'*  added  William. 
**  Mother  oflen  says  so,  and  when  I  wish  I  had 
a  father,  I  think  he  is  living  there.  But  I 
mean  I  should  like  to  see  him  sometimes,  and 
hear  him  speak,  and  know  that  he  does  not 
forget  us.  Sister  Jane  and  brother  Robert 
can  talk  with  mother  all  about  him,  how  he 
looked  and  what  he  said;  but  I  only  mind  a 
little  of  him  now,  and  sister  Nelly  was  not 
born  till  many  weeks  after  he  died." 

Forgetting  for  a  few  moments  the  errand 
upon  which  William  was  sent  to  her,  Mrs. 
Selden  sat  down,  and  drawing  to  her  side  a 
small  rocking  chair  for  him,  bade  him  be 
seated ;  and  while  her  arm  rested  along  the 
top  of  it,  continued  their  conversation ;  for 
the  little  stranger  was  every  moment  becom- 
ing  more  and  more  interesting  to  her.  and 
she  hoped  she  could  do  something  for  the 
relief  of  the  family  to  which  he  belonged. 
His  mother  was   poor,   a  widow,    and   they 


i.lil 


\i 


tf' 


.1i 


fh 


12 


THE    widow's   jewels. 


were  fatherless;  these  were  claims  strong 
enough  to  a  heart  which  also  trusted  in 
Him,  who,  she  remembered,  in  His  holy  hab- 
itation, has  promised  to  be  a  husband  to  the 
widow,  and  the  father  of  her  lonely  children. 

**  H^-v  long  have  you  lived  here?"  asked 
Mrs.  Seliien. 

''I  do  not  know,  ma'am,"  said  he;  ''I 
think  it  is  a  long  time ;  it  may  be  as  much 
as  four  years;  because  when  father  was 
dead,  there  was  no  one  to  bring  us  any  more 
meal  or  fish,  and  mother  could  not  get  work 
enough  to  do,  even  to  buy  corn  or  potatoes  for 
all  of  us,  and  then  she  came  away  here." 

''And  does  she  get  work  enough  now, 
William?" 

**No  ma'am,  not  always,"  replied 'he; 
'*  this  winter  has  been  a  hard  one  for  us." 

**  How  then  does  she  support  you  now?" 
continued  Mrs.  Selden. 

''Sometimes  she  does  have  some  work  to 
do,  and  sister  Jane  lives  out  to  service,  and 
brings  her  wages  home  each  month ;  and  that 
helps  mother  to  pay  the  rent  of  our  room; 
and  sometimes  this  winter,"  added  he,  loo^i- 
ing  down,  and  turning  round  and  round  the 


ROBERT    M    COY. 


13 


littJe  cap  which  he  held  in  his  hands,  **  Some- 
times—  O  ma'am,  what  should  we  have  done 
if  the  kind  man  had  not  given  her  something 
from  the  poor  house!" 

**  I  fear  you  must  have  suffered  often  from 
want  of  food  and  fuel,  William." 

**  We  have  not  saflfered  as  much  as  poor 
old  Mrs.  Meloy  has,  who  lives  in  the  next 
room  to  us,  and  I  do  not  think  we  shall.  I 
cannot  do  much  yet  for  mother,  only  while 
the  men  work  in  the  ship-yards,  which  will 
be  a  little  while  longer;  they  let  me  go  in  and 
pick  up  chips  for  us;  but  brother  Robert  is 
now  thirteen  years  old,  and  once  in  a  while 
has  some  errands  to  do,  for  which  he  is  paid 
money,  and  then  he  always  brings  every 
penny  to  mother.  And  this  week  he  has 
begun  to  work  on  the  roads;  they  will  allow 
him  to  come  three  days  in  the  week,  and  give 
him  sixpence  a  day,  for  breaking  stones." 

As  he  said  this,  his  countenance  brightened 
again,  exhibiting  the  hope  of  comfort  which 
animated  him,  even  from  this  small  new 
source.  But  when  all  these  little  gains  were 
summed  together,  O  how  small  indeed  were 
they,  and  how  insufficient  to  pay  rent,  and 
2 


r 


r 


"5. 


14 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


supply  food,  and  fuel,  and  clothes,  for  four, 
during  a  long  winter  season. 

As  Mrs.  Selden  looked  upon  him  sadly, 
and  almost  wept  at  the  picture  of  the  hard- 
ships which  her  fancy  drew,  as  having  been 
the  lot  of  that  lonely  alien  family ;  she  re- 
membered how  often  she  had  seen  discontent 
and  heard  wicked  murmurings  among  some 
little  children  who  never  knew  want;  but, 
while  a  kind  father's  care  supplies  all  their 
needs,  and  a  mother's  gentle  hand  and  voice 
is  ready  to  soothe  all  their  sorrows,  even 
then  they  indulge  in  complaints  and  repin- 
ings,  and  words  of  sinful  ingratitude  not  only 
have  stained  their  lips,  but  have  been  heard 
by  Him  who  notices  where  his  blessings  fall 
to  bring  back  no  return  of  praise,  and  in 
displeasure  turns  away  his  love  from  the  sul- 
len brow  and  thankless  heart. 

But  William  was  not  so.  With  cheerful- 
ness he  had  counted  up  to  Mrs.  Selden  their 
cherished  dependencies  for  future  comfort; 
but  was  it  these  poor  hopes  alone  which  seal- 
ed that  calm  smile  ^upon  the  face  of  little 
William,  and  gave  to  his  voice  that  constant 
note  of  happiness?     O  no,  not  these.     Be- 


ROBERT    M^CO\. 


15 


yond  the  scanty  pleasures  which  he  gathered 
here  and  there  in  his  rough  path  of  poverty, 
there  was  already  in  his  young  breast  a  deep 
and  never  failing  source  of  joy.  It  is  true 
the  eye  could  not  see  its  sparkling,  and  the  ear 
of  the  bystander  could  not  listen  to  its  gentle 
flow,  but  all  silently  and  sweetly  it  ever  poured 
into  his  mind  that  calm  content  and  holy  hope 
which  distinguished  it  as  flowing  only  from 
that  **  well  of  water  of  which  the  Christian 
tastes,  purifying  the  heart,  and  '*  springing 
up  to  everlasting  life." 

In  his  own  home  was  its  influence  most 
deeply  felt  and  blessed  to  his  mother's  joy. 
His  brother  Robert  too  shared  in  like  pre- 
cious faith,  and  cheerful  was  the  little  room 
in  which  they  dwelt,  with  the  eye  of  God 
looking  down,  and  already  numbering  among 
his  own  those  whom  the  desolate  widow,  in 
distress  and  aflliction,  thankfully  reckoned  as 
her  **  Jewels." 


I 


i 


It 


\' 


16 


THE  WIDOW'S  JEWELS. 


ii 
1; 


CHAPTER  n. 

The  eye  of  the  reader  of  this  little  sketch 
may  never  have  rested  upon  the  scenery  of 
one  of  the  most  eastern  cities  of  the  conti- 
nent, St.  John,  and  its  vicinity.  Lacking,  as 
it  does,  the  long  and  tasteful  culture  bestow- 
ed upon  the  soil  with  which  we  are  more 
familiar,  it  might  be  to  us,  perhaps,  in  aspect, 
less  lovely  and  beloved  than  the  fair  metrop- 
olis and  smiling  towns  of  our  native  New 
England;  but  the  wildness  and  grandeur  so 
strikingly  marked  upon  the  noble  features  of 
the  landscape  at  once  command  the  notice  of 
the  beholder,  and  make  him  feel  as  he  ap- 
proaches it,  that  in  natural  scenery,  at  least, 
it  is  not  ground  unworthy  the  favor  of  subjects 
of  the  British  throne.  Here,  where  but  sixty 
years  ago,  the  Indian  and  the  deer  ranged  in 
the  forests,  and,  in  undisturbed  solitude, 
overlooked  the  broad  bay,  now  like  a  pros- 
perous queen  of  its  waters,  sits  this  rapidly 


ROBERT    MCCOY. 


17 


sketch 
aery  of 
I  conti- 
Ling,  as 
bestow- 
e  more 
aspect, 
netrop- 
6  New 
]eur  so 
ures  of 
[>tice  of 
he  ap- 
t  least, 
ubjects 
ut  sixty 
nged  in 
)litude, 
i  pros- 
rapidly 


increasing  city,    a   long    line   of  rocky  and 
majestic  hills  extending  on  either  hand. 

Here  has  been  the  scene  of  many  an  inter- 
esting and  affecting  incident,  for  the  pen  of 
history  or  romance  to  record;  but  leaving 
these,  we  shall  turn  to  daily  life,  and  from  this 
place  select  a  subject  which,  though  it  never 
attracted  public  notice,  and  is  now  humble  in 
relation,  may  nevertheless  not  be  unprofita- 
ble to  the  little  public  for  whom  it  is  penned. 

St.  John  has  been,  for  a  time,  the  home 
of  the  writer  of  this,  and  near  the  spot  where 
she  lived  is  the  lonely  dwelling  place  of  poor 
Mrs.  McCoy.  We  call  it  lonely,  though  it 
stood  in  the  midst  of  that  busy  city,  and 
though  in  the  house  which  they  occupied, 
there  were  other  families,  like  themselves, 
emigrants  from  the  coast  of  Ireland;  but  it 
was  lonely  because  it  was  the  abode  of  the 
widow  and  fatherless,  who,  oppressed  by 
afHiction  and  poverty,  felt  indeed  that  they 
were  '*  strangers  to  the  world,  unknown,'* 
and  from  their  small  upper  room,  saw  not  as 
the  gay,  the  rich,  may  see  and  feel,  the  excit- 
ing animation  which  fills  the  breast,  where 
business  rattles  in  its  noisy  course,  an^ 
2* 


!•; 


fc'^ 


< 


18 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


beauty,  wealth  and  fashion  walk  abroad  in 
bright  display.  And  yet  in  that  upper  room, 
where  were  very  few  of  the  articles  which 
comfort  might  require,  there  was  an  influence 
shed  down  from  above,  which  can  sweetly 
supply  the  place  of  other  comforts,  and  even 
where  most  scantily  is  furnished  *'  the  bread 
which  perisheth,"  can  break  in  richest  pro- 
fusion to  the  hungry  poor  **  the  bread  of  life.'* 

There  was  the  table  which  '*  He  who  rules 
on  high"  so  liberally  spreads,  and  morning 
and  evening  did  this  little  family  encircle  that 
spiritual  board,  seeking  spiritual  food;  some- 
times the  tongue  of  the  motner  guided  their 
united  petitions,  and  sometimes  in  the  childish 
tones  and  thoughts  of  little  William  or  Robert, 
prayer  arose  to  Him  who  '*  out  of  the  mouths 
of  babes  and  sucklings  has  perfected  praise." 

Thus  week  after  week  went  by,  and  cold 
mid-winter,  with  its  storms,  w^as  on  the  land. 
From  time  to  time,  as  Mrs.  Selden  saw  them, 
and  learned  their  circumstances,  she  found 
them  happy  with  each  other,  and  with  the 
many  blessings  which  they  numbered  up, 
uncomplaining  mid  wants,  and  rejoicing  that 
while   they   were   also   preserved   from   the 


^. 


\\ 


ROBERT    MCCOY. 


19 


oad  in 
room, 
which 
iuence 
weetly 
cl  even 
bread 
it  pro- 
flife/» 
o  rules 
orning 
;le  that 
some- 
d  their 
hildish 
lobert, 
fnouths 
raise.'* 
id  cold 
e  land. 
^  them, 
found 
ith  the 
3d  up, 
ig  that 
im   the 


extremes  of  hunger  and  cold,  th6y  could  look 
upward  in  love  to  meet  a  heavenly  Father's 
love,  saved  in  their  poverty  from  suffering 
**  as  those  who  have  no  hope." 


CHAPTER  III. 

How  kind,  how^  merciful  is  that  arrange- 
ment of  Providence  which  makes  not  happi- 
ness and  usefulness  dependent  upon  the  pos- 
session of  wealth,  nor  even  withholds  from 
the  very  young  the  capacity  to  contribute  a 
share  of  influence  to  the  stock  of  human 
enjoyment.  Robert  had  commenced  his  day 
labors  upon  the  highway,  and  during  the  few 
weeks  in  which  he  had  been  so  privileged, 
he  had  felt  himself  to  be  a  happier  boy  than 
ever  before.  His  time  was  more  constantly 
occupied,  and  he  was  conscious  of  newly 
awakened  energy  and  dignity,  from  the  im- 
portant aid  he  was  thus  rendering  to  his 
mother. 


u: 


I 


%.. 


isf' 
I- 


!;' 


I: 

I- :: 


I 


520 


I  u 


i 


THE  WIDOW  S  JEWELS. 


A  week  was  closing.  Robert  had  been 
all  day  at  the  employment  which  gave  him 
so  much  pleasure:  for  uninteresting  in  itself, 
as  may  be  supposed,  was  the  occupation  of 
breaking  large  stones  into  small  ones;  and 
fatiguing  as  it  became  when  sitting  hour  after 
hour  upon  the  rough  pile  where  he  labored,  he 
saw  it  only  slowly  accumulating,  as  stroke  by 
stroke  with  his  hammer  he  gradually  dimin- 
ished the  large  mass  before  him,  yet  no 
thought  of  discouragement  at  the  very  small 
compensation  to  be  received,  rior  any  feeling 
of  weariness,  could  induce  him  to  give  up  his 
post;  but  as  if  he  were  constantly  learning 
the  value  of  perseverance  from  the  hard, 
unyielding  texture  of  the  stones  themselves, 
he  labored  away,  and  made  the  long  hours 
appear  like  short  ones,  by  often  remembering 
the  affectionate  smile  of  his  mother  when  he 
had  placed  in  her  hand  the  three  silver  six- 
pences of  a  week's  wages,  and  in  imagining 
what  would  be  her  delight  and  his  own,  when 
he  should  present  to  her,  in  a  form  which  his 
watchful  filial  affection  suggested,  an  unex- 
pected luxury,  as  the  avails  of  his  next  pay- 
ment;  how    it   would    cure    her   head-ache, 


?< 


/■ 


ROBERT    MCCOY. 


21 


cheer  her  spirits,  and  gain  for  him  the  ofl 
repeated,  **  God  bless  you,  my  good  Rob- 
ert!" 

Could  the  little  boys,  whose  cheeks  would 
probably  have  been  bedewed  with  tears,  if 
they  had  been  compelled  to  endure  what  they 
might  call  the  hardship  of  sitting  thus  at 
labor,  in  cold  and  poverty,  have  seen  young 
Robert  —  his  cheeks  and  ears  tinted  with 
ruddiest  crimson  from  exposure  to  the  wintry 
blasts — his  eyes  without  a  trace  of  tears, 
brightened  by  the  emotions  of  gratitude  and 
affection,  while  his  steady-going  hammer 
kept  time  with  the  tune  he  whistled — they 
could,  overlooking  his  well  patched  jacket, 
almost  have  been  induced  for  a  while  to  ex- 
change their  warm  firesides  for  his  warm 
heart;  and,  leaving  the  little  pleasures  which 
money  can  purchase,  they  would  certainly 
have  felt  and  acknowledged  that  they  are  all 
small  indeed  compared  with  the  pure  pleasure 
of  doing  good. 

It  was  Saturday  evening.  The  hour  for 
him  with  his  fellow  laborers  to  leave  their 
tasks  came  with  the  shades  of  night,  and 
Robert   carefully    putting   up   his   hammer, 


Ml 


I! 

\    1 


'■  1'^ 


1 


2'2 


THE   WIDOW   S  JEWELS. 


which  constituted  all  his  little  stock  in  trade, 
turned  from  the  scene  of  his  toil  with  happi- 
ness. A  Sahbath  day  of  rest  was  before  him 
on  the  morrow  —  and  ere  he  should  sleep, 
preparatory  to  entering  upon  it,  he  could 
bring  to  his  beloved  mother  a  new  comfort. 
Lightly  he  turned  his  steps  toward  the  pay- 
master, and  receiving  the  money  due  to  him, 
grasped  the  rich  treasure  in  his  hand,  until  it 
left  upon  his  hardened  palm  the  lineaments  of 
the  good  young  queen  which  it  bore  en- 
stamped.  But  the  queen  herself  had  never 
such  a  pleasure  as  he  foretasted  now, —  per- 
haps none  to  be  preferred  to  it. 

**  Holloa,  Bob  McGoy!  "  called  a  young 
rough  voice  to  him  from  the  opposite  side  of 
the  street.  So  occupied  was  Robert's  mind 
with  the  one  thought  which  had  possessed  it, 
that  this  sudden  interruption  of  it  made 
him  start,  and  looking  confusedly  around, 
he  distinguished  in  the  faint  twilight,  the 
stout  little  form  and  tattered  coat  of  Jim 
Doherty. 

**  And  where  are  you  going  now  so  fast?  '* 
said  James,  **my  soul,  I  thought  the  street 
itself  was  not  long  enough  for  ye  then!  '* 


1  trade, 
\  happi- 
bre  him 
1  sleep, 
D   could 
jomtbrt. 
iie  pay- 
to  him, 
,  until  it 
mcntsof 
ore   en- 
d  never 
,—  per- 

young 
side  of 
's  mind 
jssed  it, 
made 
iround, 
|ht,  the 
lof  Jim 

fast?'» 
street 


ROBERT    MCCOY. 


33 


if 


)) 


"  Home,  as  quick  as  I  can,  to  mother,"  an- 
swered Robert,  continuing  on  his  way. 

"Never  so  fast.  Bob,"  shouted  James 
again,  eagerly,  "I  am  older  nor  ye,  and  may 
be  can  tell  ye  a  word  worth  knowing." 

"No,  no,"  said  Robert,  "  I  have  a  great 
deal  to  do  to-night." 

"O  yes,  an'  don't  I  know  it.^  ye're  cat'- 
chism  to  be  sure.  Ah  hah!  ah  hah!  That's 
for  being  such  a  foolish  tory  that  ye  were  to 
larn  to  read  indeed!  But  faith!  an  ye  must 
wait  a  bit,"  said  he,  looking  at  Robert,  who 
heeded  him  not.  Then  using  all  speed,  he 
soon  overtook  the  composed  boy,  and  hold- 
ing out  his  hand,  containing  a  few  coppers, 
said  softly,  slyly  nodding  his  head,  "Just 
down  by  the  yard  yonder  is  a  nice  handy  cor- 
ner, where  Patrick  Mahoney  and  I  have  been 
turning  coppers  so  neatly  to-day — let  yere 
mither  go — an'  come  ye  with  the  change 
the  man  gave  ye  but  now  —  see  who'll  win 
—  an'  good  luck  to  ye!  " 

"James  Doherty!"  exclaimed  Robert  — 
and  he  was  about  to  add  — "you  are  a  wicked 
boy;"  but  checking  himself,  remembering 
that  this  would  only  make  James  angry,  and 


♦li. 


I- 

r, 


i;' 


I'! 


i 


24 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


prevent  his  doing  him  any  good  —  he  naid  sol- 
emnly, "Who  are  you  talking  to!  /  let  my 
good  mother  go,  indeed!  and  I  am  her  cldeMi 
son,  and  she  is  my  best  earthly  friend!  Let 
her  go,  James,  and  go  with  you,  to  spend  ao 
wickedly  the  money  I  have  received  — 
not  I!" 

**  Yere  mither's  oldest  son,  to  be  sure  ye 
are,'*  said  James,  *'  an  wiser  than  many  an 
older  one,  as  meself,  ye  think,  but  ye  yet  can 
lam  of  some  a  wee  bit;  an'  it's  I  can  tell 
ye;  'tis  far  aisier  to  throw  a  copper  with 
a  good  lad,  than  to  sit  batin  at  stones  all 
day." 

**Not  easier  for  me,"  said  Robert  digni- 
fiedly.  "And,  James,  do  you  know  who  sees 
you  all  the  time,  and  knows  your  sin?  You 
forget  thatf  when  you  call  it  easy — no!  it  is 
hard  work  to  sin!  " 

"  An'  who  says  it  is  sin,  ye  sinner,  jist  to 
pitch  a  copper  at  a  stick,  an'  see  it  turn  the 
very  way  ye  said  it  would,  an'  put  it  in  yere 
pocket  then  so  swately;  as  if  that  were  not 
yere  own,  an'  staling  ye  were  all  tliv^  t'uie  — 
no,  no!  it  is  the  same  thing  that's  done  by 
gintlemen;    an'  when  I   am  ould  enough   I 


ROBERT    Mt^COY. 


25 


Raid  sol- 
r  let  my 
;r  oklesi 
d!  Let 
pend  30 
eived  — 

sure  ye 
many  an 
1  yet  can 
can  tell 
)er  with 
ones  all 

't  digni- 
)ho  sees 
?  You 
to!  it  is 

|,  jist  to 
;urn  the 
I  in  yere 
fre  not 

M'liie  — 

|one  by 

I 


will   learn  how  they  turn  the  cards — faith! 
Come,  we  are  jist  forennnst  the  place." 

**  James,  1  told  ,  ou  I  should  not  go!  I  am 
in  a  hurry  to  go  home — and  if  1  had  the 
whole  day  and  sunshine  before  me,  I  would 
not  go  with  you.  I  tell  you  it  is  sin\  —  were 
those  coppers  each  a  golden  *  sovereign,*  and 
wcie  a  thousand  more  there  shining  by  them, 
I  would  not  take  one  of  them  so!  It  is  sin  — 
and  no  gentleman  can  make  the  matter  any 
better." 

The  wretched  urchin  turned  around  facing 
Robert,  and  dancing  along  backward  direct- 
ly in  his  path,  raised  aloft  his  hand  containing 
the  coppers,  and  shaking  it  'till  each  rent  in 
his  dirty  sleeve  became  visible,  exclaimed  — 
*'  Ha,  ha!  iv*ry  man  laugh  that  wins." 

**Ah,  ah!  let  every  boy  mourn  that  sins," 
responded  Robert. 

And  so  their  interview  ended;  for  poor 
Doherty  was  one  of  those  who**  refuse  in- 
struction " — and  always  hastened  to  escape 
from  it,  where  escape  was  possible.  His  pa- 
rents were  both  unhappily  of  the  same  descrip- 
tion, who,  having  lived  long  in  disregard  of 
sin,  seldom  feared  or  thought  upon  its  pun- 
3 


i' 


■ 


fev. 


W 


T»5T' 


26 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


ishment,  and  were  rapidly  preparing  to  leave 
to  their  numerous  family  of  sons  and  daugh- 
ters, the  miserable  inheritance  of  their  own 
poverty,  idleness  and  sin;  with  the  sure  pros- 
pect of  its  final,  just  recompense  —  even  end- 
less death.  Much  as  these  circumstances  of 
their  comfortless  and  discordant  home  re- 
commended the  children  to  the  sympathy  of 
those  who  condemn  sin  —  although  untaught, 
as  they  were,  beneath  that  profane  roof;  yet 
from  time  to  time  a  voice  reached  their  hearts 
as  they  turned  to  commit  evil;  for  God  has 
not  left  himself  without  witness,  even  in 
such  abodes,  and  in  such  hearts.  Conscience, 
that  sure  evidence  of  His  own  existence, 
every  where  remains  the  faithful  friend  and 
teacher  of  the  young,  and  although  to  these 
persons,  blinded  by  ignorance  and  supersti- 
tion, the  Holy  Word  of  God  was  as  a  sealed 
book,  yet  this  moving  principle  within,  ever 
gathered  for  them  choice  instructions  from 
the  light  and  truth,  which  in  our  favored 
lands  are  so  widely  scattered  from  its  pages. 
Conscience  taught,  then,  of  the  sin  of  this 
species  of  gambling,  and  silently  reproved 
within  his  own  bosom,  as  well  as  by  the  words 


ROBERT    MCCOY. 


o 


27 


to  leave 
\  daugh- 
leir  own 
jre  pros- 
ven  end- 
iances  of 
ome   re- 
ipathy  of 
intaiight, 
'oof;  yet 
ir  hearts 
God  has 
even    in 
iscience, 
xistence, 
[end  and 
to  these 
supersti- 
a  sealed 
lin,  ever 
)ns  from 
favored 
s  pages, 
of  this 
eproved 
e  words 


i 


of  Robert,  James  hastily  sought  to  flee  both 
the  words  and  thouofhts  of  remonstrance  so 
annoying  to  him,  and  murmuring  the  angry 
curse  he  dared  not  pronounce,  darted  down 
the  lane  leading  to  the  "wee  handy  corner  '* 
to  which  he  had  been  inviting  Robert,  hoping 
to  meet  there  with  some  more  ready  victim  of 
his  temptations  and  skill.  For  James  had  so> 
thoroughly  learned  the  art  of  cheating,  and 
had  so  little  regard  for  truth,  that  seldom  did 
a  copper  make  its  appearance  upon  **  pitch- 
ing ground,*'  where  he  was  present,  which 
he  did  not  manage  in  some  way  to  pass  into 
his  pocket;  while  few  indeed  of  them  ever 
escaped  thence  to  appease  the  anger  of  those, 
who,  vexed  at  the  '*  luck  "  which  "  wicked 
Jim  "  kept  in  his  own  control,  not  only  sacri- 
ficed their  money  and  disobeyed  the  right, 
but  received  from  him  their  first  lessons  in 


swearmg. 


But  Robert  had  given  to  conscience,  that 
friendly  voice  from  God,  a  strong  place  in  his 
heart,  and  therefore  could  not  be  easily  be- 
trayed into  evil ;  for  those  who  fear  the  Lord, 
are  kept  from  falling  into  sin  by  His  Power. 
Again,  as  lie  proceeded  homeward,  his 
thought*   returned   to   the    pleasing   subject 


1 


!'i, 


) 


'il^ 


lit 


ai 


'I*- 


iiai 


■m 


ill 


28 


TKE  widow's  jewels. 


from  which  they  had  for  a  time  been  diverted, 
by  pity  for  the  vicious  boy.  And  when  he  came 
to  a  grocer's  store,  brightly  lighted,  he 
bounded  in,  and  laying  upon  the  counter  two 
of  his  sixpences,  demanded  their  equivalent 
in  good  tea.^*  As  he  received  the  small  par- 
cel from  the  tradesman's  hands,  a  smile  of 
delight  overspread  his  features,  and  the  in- 
voluntary words,  **  my  dear,  good  mother!" 
dropped  touchingly  from  his  lips.  It  was 
worth  a  week  of  toil  indeed! 

Cheerfully  then  laying  down  the  remaining 
sixpence,  he  purchased  with  it  a  few  potatoes 
and  three  or  four  farthing  candles. 

With  a  proud  heart  and  light  step,  he 
sprang  up  the  stairs  leading  to  the  low  room 
in  which  they  lived;  then  setting  by  the  po- 
tatoes and  candles,  he  went  softly  up  to  his 
mother,  and  placing  in  her  hand  the  new  lux- 
ury, turned  quickly  to  the  window  to  conceal 
the  tears  which  were  starting  to  his  eye. 

** Robert!  my  good  Robert!  —  God  spare 
you  to  us!"  ejaculated  the  poor  woman;  and 
laying  her  hand  upon  his  head,  with  fervent 
kiss,  and  fervent  faith,  she  silently  asked  for 
him  the  richest  blessings  which  Heaven  might 
condescend  to  give. 


'■;.-^. 


liverted, 
he  came 
ited,  he 
nter  two 
uivalent 
nail  par- 
smile  of 

the  in- 
lother!" 

It  was 

maining 
potatoes 

step,  he 
)w  room 
the  po- 
)  to  his 
lew  lux- 
conceal 
ye. 

d  spare 
an;  and 
fervent 
sked  for 
n  might 


ROBERT    MCCOY. 


2d 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Humble  and  courteous  in  his  manner  to- 
wards all,  Robert  was  rapidly  gaining  friends. 
Among  the  few  who  began  to  appreciate  his 
unassuming  worth,  were  some  who  were  able 
to  assist  him  in  his  efforts  for  a  livelihood,  by 
furnishing  him  occasional  employment.  But 
not  from  such  individuals  alone  did  he  seem 
desirous  of  securing  favor;  the  poor,  and 
feeble,  and  aged,  shared  in  the  attentions 
which  he  could  bestow,  and  among  them, 
where  least  observed  by  others,  were  some 
of  the  brightest  manifestations  of  his  kind- 
ness. One,  who  was  almost  blind,  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  guarding  to  and  from  meeting, 
when  other  infirmities  did  not  prevent  her 
from  attending;  with  another,  who  was  old 
and  much  affected  by  a  cancer  in  the  head, 
he  was  accustomed  frequently  to  sit,  in  his 
leisure  moments,  sometimes  reading  to  her 
from  the  Word  of  God  —  and  when  one  day 
3* 


'h 


'.I 


/■  „ 


% 


V 

1/  '" 


\ 


If 


W 


li 


i. 


30 


THE  WIDOW'S  JEWELS. 


II! 

m 


a  little  boy,  who  had  been  sent  to  her  with 
some  honey  for  her  cough,  exclaimed  disdain- 
fully to  Robert,  because  of  the  long  visit  he 
had  been  making  in  her  room,  saying,  "Pah! 
/  was  glad  enough  to  get  away  as  soon  as  / 
could,  her  head  smells  so  bad — and  looks  so 
disagreeably  with  those  thick  bandages!'* 
Robert  only  answered  by  saying  that  he  could 
bear  it  very  well,  though  it  did  seem  bad,  be- 
cause he  thought  to  himself —  **What  if  she 
were  my  mother ,  and  living  alone  so?  I  should 
want  some  one  to  be  willing  to  sit  by  her 
then!" 

For  many,  indeed,  Robert  was  never  un- 
willing to  perform  any  service,  and  was  fre- 
quently offering  his  aid ;  so  that  in  the  small 
circle  with  which  he  was  connected,  his  very 
name  was  beloved,  and  his  coming  every 
where  welcomed. 

Some,  who  are  not  thoughtfully  desirous  of 
improving  every  opportunity  to  add  to  the 
happiness  of  mankind,  may  think  these  were 
but  small  matters,  and  regarding  them  as 
of  little  consequence,  will  be  very  likely  to 
lose  the  pleasure  of  contributing  their  aid 
towards  increasing  the  general  stock  of  good, 


her  with 
disdain- 
visit  he 
r,  *'Pah! 
>on  as  / 
looks  so 
idages!" 
he  could 
bad,  be- 
at if  she 
I  should 
;  by  her 

5ver  un- 
wns  fre- 
be  small 
his  very 
every 


T 


irous  of 
to  the 
se  were 
hem  as 
ikely  to 
leir  aid 
)f  good, 


ROBERT    MCCOY. 


31 


forgetting  how  much  they  really  might  do, 
and  leaving  to  those  only  who  can  perform 
great  deeds,  which  may  attract  the  notice  of 
hundreds,  the  delight  of  relieving,  in  some 
degree,  the  sorrows  of  the  world.  Such  per- 
sons, would  they  reflect  a  moment,  will  be 
surprised  to  find  how  much  the  comfort  of 
their  lives  has  depended  upon  little  kindness- 
es and  momentary  attentions,  and  how  small 
a  share  of  it  has  been  caused  by  any  great 
efforts  of  others  in  their  behalf. 

The  earth  in  its  lovely  drapery  of  green, 
the  trees  which  compose  our  vast  forests  — 
even  that  one  which  may  stand  loftiest,  and 
highest  wave  its  luxuriant  branches  —  owe 
not  their  beauty  and  their  grandeur  more 
to  the  copious  shower  and  favoring  noontide 
sun,  than  to  the  softened  morning  beams  and 
gently  nursing  dews  of  eve.  Then  let  the 
youngest  heart  which  may  have  learned  to 
estimate  a  comfort,  begin  to  cherish  there 
that  true  benevolence  which  will  lead  it  to 
seek,  in  small  events,  to  bless  the  world. 
Afterward,  '*  because  they  have  been  faithful 
in  little,"  the  commission  to  do  those  great 
things  which  they  desire  may  be  given 
them. 


t;:    '■ 


^^;t!l 


■¥: ': 


I 
It 


4 


m. 


2ti 


•  III 


II 


92 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


Good  little  Andrew  did  not  laugh  at  Rob- 
ert, when  one  night  meeting  him  in  the  street 
with  his  arms  lull  of  shavings,  he  asked, 
*' Where  are  going,  Robert?"  '*To  make 
a  clean  bed  for  old  Mrs.  Morey's  pig,"  said 
Robert. 

*'  You  are  always  kind  to  every  one,  Rob- 
ert, and  so  I  suppose  every  one  thinks  you 
have  iioihing  else  to  do." 

"No,"  said  Robert,  *'  she  did  not  ask  me 
to  do  this  for  him,  but  you  know  she  has 
no  little  boys  to  wait  upon  her,  and  I  thought 
poor  piggy  must  be  cold  there  alone,  in  his 
wet,  dirty  nest;  so  as  I  was  coming  by  Mr. 
Williams'  work  shop,  I  begged  these  shav- 
ings for  him.  I  believe  I  shall  sleep  the 
better  to-night  myself,  to  know  that  I  have 
made  even  a  poor  little  pig  more  comfortable 
than  he  would  have  been  but  for  me." 

Meantime  William  was  emulating  his 
elder  brother  in  goodness,  and  so  far  as  his 
younger  age  and  tender  frame  would  permit, 
was  very  ambitious  to  follow  his  exampl  i  and 
perform  labors  of  usefulness.  Sometimes  he 
was  entrusted  with  the  charge  of  an  errand, 
when  Robert  was  otherwise  engaged,  and 
the  speed  and  accuracy  with  which  he  sue- 


t  Rob- 
e  street 
asked, 
[)  make 
r,"said 

e,  Rob- 
»ks  you 

ask  me 
she  has 
thought 
,  in  his 
[by  Mr. 
B  shav- 
lep  the 
I  have 
brtable 

)g  his 
as  his 
permit, 
)\  i  and 
mes  he 
errand, 
J,  and 
e  sue- 


ROBERT    MCCOY. 


33 


f 


ceeded  in  performing  it,  often  gained  him 
the  surprise  and  reward  of  the  individual 
who  had  employed  him. 

Then  too,  he  had  been  able  by  manly 
effort  to  keep  their  hearth  stone  warm  during 
the  cold  winter  days,  thus  far,  by  his  dili- 
gence in  bringing  home  the  chips  which  the 
laborers  in  the  ship-yards  allowed  him  to 
gather  up  from  around  them;  and  when  these 
failed,  he  would  go  to  the  distant  forests, 
often  mid  storms,  and  bind  up  the  knots  and 
dry  branches  which  the  fierce  winds  had 
broken  from  the  trees  and  strewed  upon  the 
ground;  and  daily  did  he  divide  these  neces- 
sary but  humble  supplies  with  the  poor 
widow,  Mrs.  Meloy,  living  in  the  next  room 
to  them,  who,  aged  and  almost  blind,  had 
neither  son  nor  daughter  to  cheer  her  lone- 
liness, nor  penny  of  her  own  in  store  to 
relieve  her  wants;  but  dependent  upon  the 
very  scanty  provisions  afforded  as  her  share 
from  the  parish,  was  almost  unknown  to  char- 
ity, and  was  waiting  only  for  the  change 
which  would  remove  her  from  her  infirmities, 
and  poverty  to  the  weary  pilgrim's  home  — 
the  grave. 


i»n 


■M 


I  '1 


I 


34 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


"I 


ill 


111 


I 


:i!l 


ii,  li  ■ 


The  little  boys  were  both  hap[)y  in  doing 
all  in  their  power  for  her  comfort;  nor 
were  their  sincere  endeavors  unavailing. 
Robert  was  always  ready,  when  at  home,  to 
serve  her  in  some  way,  and  William,  in  ad- 
dition to  the  chips,  shavings  and  branches, 
with  which  he  contributed  with  some  success 
to  warm  her  trembling  limls,  was  not  less 
useful  (o  her. 

At  the  foot  of  a  high,  rugged  hill,  a  short 
distance  from  them,  a  small  spring  of  water 
issued  from  the  bank,  and  falling  over  the 
projecting  point  of  a  ledge  of  rocks,  supplied 
many  poor  emigrants  with  almost  the  only 
article  of  use  to  be  obtained  without  money 
or  price.  From  this  little  fountain  William 
brought  water  for  their  daily  use,  until  now, 
in  the  severity  of  the  cold,  the  small  stream 
was  so  choked  by  the  ice,  that  it  was  long 
ere  a  bucket  could  be  filled  from  it,  and  the 
stones  and  surrounding  embankment  were  so 
covered  by  its  thick  incrustations,  that  as  his 
shoes  were  worn  out,  he  could  no  longer 
stand  and  wait  as  formerly  for  the  slowly 
dripping  liquid;  this  attention  to  his  mothe? 
and  Mrs.  Meloy  had  therefore  passed  into 
the  car©  of  the  more  hardy  Robert. 


in  doing 
rt ;  nor 
ivailing. 
lome,  to 
1,  in  ad- 
anches, 
success 
not  less 

a  short 

)f  water 

iver  the 

supplied 

he  only 

t  money 

kVilliam 

til  now, 

stream 

as  long 

ind  the 

were  so 

t  as  his 

longer 

slowly 

mothei' 

ed  into 


( 


ROBERT    MCCOY. 


35 


One  evening,  hastening  home  from  his 
employment,  and  quickly  performing  the 
customary  little  services  for  each,  he  stood 
leaning  against  the  low  window,  looking 
down  upon  the  many  houses  about  them. 
He  was  planning  for  future  years;  his 
thoughts  roved  wildly,  and  hope  promised 
fairly,  as  he  summed  up  a  long  list  of  time, 
and  labor,  and  knowledge,  and  pleasures 
which  he  was  fancying  would  be  his  portion. 
He  would  be  willing,  he  thought,  to  labor 
hard,  to  deny  himself —  and  he  would  do  so; 
then,  having  acquired  the  knowledge  and 
resources  which  he  imagined  would  satisfy 
his  wishes,  he  went  on  to  paint  in  mind  the 
snug  home  he  would  like  to  have  for  his 
mother's  comfort  —  he  seemed  to  see  her 
occupying  the  principal  seat  within  it  —  a 
little  older  it  is  true  than  now,  but  softly 
touched  by  the  hand  of  age,  so  that  she 
could  still  retain  her  health  and  capacity  to 
enjoy  the  pleasures  he  would  so  delight  to 
pour  at  her  feet  after  her  long  series  of  hard- 
ships and  toils.  O,  this  was  the  brightest 
part  of  the  picture,  and  long  did  he  dwell 
npon  it,  changing  and  improving  his  fancied 


m^ 


■Mi 


¥.  ] 


.14 


<:         ^ 


■  1;. 


11:: 


ill- 


r^*f-! 


f 


36 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


'■;\ 


arrangements  as  he  thought  would  best  please 
her,  with  all  the  interest  of  reality.  Then 
his  little  sister  Nelly  should  know  no  want 
of  aught  he  could  procure  to  gratify  her. 
William  should  be  sent  to  school,  and  be 
supplied  with  means  to  support  himself,  and 
all  their  now  poor  and  anxious  circle  should 
be  happy  —  when  he  should  be  a  man!  O, 
how  should  he  then  gladden  the  h'^arts  of  the 
poor  whom  he  knew,  and  how  generously 
would  he  remember  t  ■  reward  any  little  des- 
titute boy  whom  he  ml^^ht  send  on  errands 
for  him,  when  he  himself  would  be  tl  j  gen- 
tleman. 

So  busy  was  he  with  his  boyish  schemes 
as  to  forget  his  fatigue  and  the  darkness  of 
the  hour,  all  in  the  bright  days  of  coming 
years.  Suddenly  a  town  clock  reminded 
him  that  the  time  was  approaching  in  which 
old  Mrs.  Meloy  was  to  go  out  to  her  evening 
meeting;  he  left  the  fair  dreams  of  future 
prosperity  and  usefulness  which  he  was  pic- 
turing, and  presented  himself  as  usual  at 
her  door  to  accompany  her,  still  exhilarated 
by  the  effect  of  his  imagination. 

The  old  lady,  sitting  on  a  low  stool  by  the 


ROBERT    MCCOY. 


137 


fire,  was  just  putting  on  a  clean  cap.  As  Rob- 
ert opened  the  door,  his  little  sister  Nelly 
sprang  from  her  posture  by  the  slioulder  of 
the  poor  woman,  upon  which  she  had  been 
leaning  during  the  story  she  had  been  listen- 
ing to  from  her  lips,  and  clapping  her  hands 
with  joy  as  a  pleasant  thought  seemed  at 
once  to  suggest  itself  to  her  mind,  she  said, 
**  O  Robert,  Robert,  come  in;  I  want  to  tell 
you  something.  O,  I  wish  it  were  not  so 
dark  now,  then  you  could  see;  but  only 
think,  grandma'  Meloy's  hair  is  turning 
black!  I  wish  you  could  see  it;  there's  one 
black  hair  and  then  another,  and  another, 
and  close  by  it  two  or  three  together,  all 
turned  as  black!  Sha'nt  you  be  glad  when 
they  are  all  alike?  then  I  guess  she  will  be 
young  again,  and  stand  straighter  and  walk 
faster  than  she  does  now;  and  I  suppose  she 
will  see  again;  she  will  not  wish,  Robert,  to 
have  you  come  to  go  to  meeting  with  her 
then." 

*'No,  no,"  said  the  poor  woman,  shaking 
her  head,  *'  I  shall  never  be  young  again. 
Once,  many,  many  long  years  ago,  my  hair 
was  dark  and  smooth,  like  your  own  bright 


B 


I 
'  ,1 


M 


.'  •'SI 


ill 

tl 


38 


THE  WIDOW  S  JEWELS. 


ill'l 


locks;  my  eyes  were  as  blue  and  quick  to 
see,  my  chock  as  soft  and  round,  and  I  could 
stand  as  strnij^ht  and  run  as  fast  as  your  lit- 
tle self,  Nelly;  but  O,  those  years  have  gone: 
they  came  and  went  so  swiftly  that  I  scarce 
could  tell  how  they  passed;  but  by  and  by, 
here  and  there  a  white  hair  came,  and  wrin- 
kle followed  wrinkle  on  my  cheek,  and  from 
my  eye  the  clear  blue  faded,  my  sight  grew 
dim,  my  ear  grew  dull  of  hearing,  my  steps 
were  slow  and  slower  still,  till  my  feet  trem- 
bled as  I  put  them  to  the  ground,  and  my 
shoulders  bowed  down  beneath  the  weight  of 
almost  eighty  years. 

*'  Now  lay  your  hand  just  here,  Nelly, 
upon  your  heart;  you  feel  it  beating  full  and 
fast — that  is  your  life.  You  cannot  make  it 
still,  nor  could  you  wake  it  into  motion  if  it 
once  should  cease  to  throb.  'Twas  God  who 
gave  it  first  that  motion,  and  'tis  he  who 
keeps  it  active  still.  Perhaps  for  eighty 
years  to  come  he  will  watch  around  it  every 
little  moment,  that  it  may  not  cease,  or  he 
may  bid  it  soon  to  beat  no  more.  But  should 
he  condescend  to  guard  you  thus  so  many 
years,  then  you  will  be  as  I  91m  now,  and 


need  some 
hours,  or 
lead  you  t 

''Ogra 
shall  we 
lonesome 

**  Not  a 
beats  slow 
Robert's, 
its  strengt 
months  ar 
more;  the 
time,  this 
will  close, 
and  be  laii 
and  black( 
Nelly,  I  si 
ed  my  spir 
world,  I  s 
these  limb 
live. 

*•  But  til 
terror,  su 
will  come, 
opening  si 

brij^htiiess 

9 


'^i;!! 


RODERT    MCCOY. 


39 


need  some  happy  little  child  for  your  lonely 
hours,  or  some  kind  hand  like  Robert's  to 
lead  you  to  the  place  of  prayer." 

"  O  grandma'!*'  she  exclaimed,  **and  then 
shall  we  live  on,  and  be  always  so  old  and 
lonesome  and  sick?" 

**Not  always,  Nelly;  feel  here,  my  heart 
heats  slower  and  more  feebly  than  yours  and 
Robert's.  It  will  not  beat  much  longer,  for 
its  strength  is  almost  gone,  and  before  many 
months  are  passed,  probably  it  can  move  no 
more;  then  when  it  lias  moved  for  the  last 
time,  this  breath  will  cease,  these  dull  eyes 
will  close,  this  face,  these  limbs  will  stiffen 
and  be  laid  away  in  the  grave,  to  moulder, 
and  blacken,  and  crumble  into  dust;  but  still, 
Nelly,  I  shall  live;  God  will  then  have  call- 
ed my  spirit  to  himself.  There,  in  that  other 
world,  I  shall  not  need  this  heart  to  beat,  or 
these  limbs  to  move  —  like  the  angels  I  shall 
live. 

"But  there  will  be  a  day  of  glory  and  of 
terror,  such  as  has  never  been  —  for  God 
will  come.  Man  shall  look  upward  to  the 
opening  skies  and  bf;hold  him  there  in  awful 
brightness,  surrounded  by  a  thousand  times 


■p. 


"wVk 


¥■ 


m-. 


40 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


Mr  1 


•m 


Ir. 


iiiif 


i   i 


II  r 


iii 


i''' 


I. ":;: 


I !'  ,■ 


i^ii 


ten  thousand  of  his  angels.  The  sun  and 
stars  shall  fade  away  before  him;  the  moun- 
tains and  the  seas  shall  tremble  at  his  pres- 
ence; and  when  he  shall  utter  his  voice,  it 
shall  shake  terribly  the  earth  and  all  the 
dead  shall  hear  it.  Then  rising  from  their 
long  slumbers,  these  bodies,  once  decayed 
and  mingling  undistinguished  with  the  dust, 
shall  put  on  life  immortal  at  his  command. 
None  can  disobey  him  then,  or  flee  the 
glances  of  his  eye,  or  tarry  in  the  grave. 
You  will  be  there,  /shall  be  there,  to  occupy 
again  these  bodies,  not  bJiickened  and  moul- 
dering, as  when  the  worms  fed  upon  them 
in  their  dark  abode,  not  old,  and  weary,  and 
sick,  as  when  the  spirit  left  them,,  but  sown 
in  corruption,  they  shall  be  raised  in  incor- 
ruption,  never  to  grow  sick,  and  weary,  and 
old  again ;  but  if  buried  in  faith,  new  rising, 
they  shall  meet  the  Savior's  smile,  and  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  be  changed;  beautiful 
and  happy  for  ever  shall  they  be,  like  his 
own  most  glorious  body. 

**  Because  of  sin  once,  God  condemned 
all  mankind  to  die  in  punishment;  but  because 
Christ  redeemed  us  by  his  death,  the  bodies 


'^ili: 


ROBERT    MCCOY. 


41 


sun  and 

le  moun- 

tiis  pres- 

voice,  it 

1   all  the 

cm  their 

decayed 

the  dust, 

ommand. 

flee    the 

le  grave. 

0  occupy 

nd  moul- 

on  them 

ary,  and 

)ut  sown 

n  incor- 

ary,  and 

»v  rising, 

d  in  the 

eautiful 

like  his 

idemned 
Ibecause 
bodies 


i 


of  those  who  forsake  sin,  believing  in  Him, 
shall  be  restored  to  life  everlasting.  That 
as  sin  hath  reigned  unto  death,  even  so  might 
grace  reign  through  righteousness  unto  eter- 
nal life." 

Robert  turned  away  with  a  sigh  and  a 
smile.  With  a  sigh  —  for  the  solemn  thoughts 
upon  that  certain  and  awful  future,  had  dissi- 
pated the  frail  vision  of  the  brief  and  uncer- 
tain future  which  he  had  been  so  busy  in 
portraying  to  himself;  but  a  smile  may  well 
follow  such  a  sigh,  when  the  heart  can  feel 
itself  secure  in  pardoned  sin  from  the  fear 
and  destruction  which  is  to  overtake  those 
who  have  not  *'fled  for  refuge  "  to  the  blood 
of  Christ. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Another  Friday  night  came  around,  and 
scarce  a  week  had  passed  away,  since,  exhil- 
erated  with  joy  and  health,  Robert  had  almost 
4* 


ft  »• 


m 


■:*  i 


■I" 


■.  '(i 


42 


THE  WIDOW'S  JEWELS. 


flown  up  the  stairs  to  meet  the  blessing  and 
prayer  of  his  pious  mother.  That  prayer 
was  soon  to  be  answered  by  Him  who  knows 
**what  best  for  each  will  prove,"  and  who 
will  surely  recompense  the  blessing  of  the 
parent  upon  the  head  of  the  child. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  as  he  turned 
his  steps  homeward  from  his  labor.  The 
dark  purple  clouds  lay  threateningly  and  low 
along  the  horizon,  and  the  wintry  night  winds 
swept  coldly  through  the  streets  and  lanes  of 
the  city.  As  the  darkness  increased,  the 
chill  blasts  became  more  and  more  penetrat- 
ing, and  as  they  hurried  one  after  the  other, 
bore  along  upon  their  course  clouds  of  the 
light  snow  which  had  fallen  during  the  day. 

The  traveller,  who  here  and  there  was 
facing  the  rough  wind,  felt  its  force,  and 
shiveringly  gathered  his  thick  clothes  more 
closely  about  him. 

Trembling  more  than  he  was  wont  to  do 
before  the  cold,  end  with  no  extra  garment 
to  protect  him,  Robert  could  only  grasp  his  lit- 
tle jacket  tightly  to  him  with  one  hand,  while 
quickening  his  pace,  he  pressed  the  other  to 
his  aching  head.     Flushed  and  fatigued,  it 


I 


was 


ROBERT    MCCOY. 


43 


sing  and 
t  prayer 
10  knows 
and  who 
g  of  the 

le  turned 

r.      The 

T  and  low 

rht  winds 

[  lanes  of 

Lsed,  the 

penetrat- 

le  other, 

Is  of  the 

the  day. 

lere  was 

ce,   and 

es  more 

nt  to  do 
garment 
p  his  1  it- 
id,  while 
other  to 
giied,  it 


i 


was  with  difficulty  he  could  ascend  the  long 
flights  of  stairs  leading  to  their  abode;  and 
when  he  had  performed  the  tasks  which  de- 
volved upon  him  at  night,  for  his  mother  and 
Mrs.  Meloy,  he  sunk  down  upon  his  little 
couch,  feverish  and  restless,  begging  his 
mother  to  pray  that  the  pain  in  his  head  might 
abate.  All  night  scarcely  could  he  refrain 
from  disturbing  the  family  with  his  groans; 
and  when  the  morning  light  appeared,  his 
waking  eye  hailed  its  coming,  but  it  brought 
no  relief  to  that  deep-seated  pain.  Unable 
to  rise  during  all  the  day,  the  long  hours,  as 
they  passed,  seemed  but  to  add  to  it  in  their 
wearisome  flight.  Towards  evening  his  anxi- 
ous mother,  alarmed  much  by  his  increased 
sufferings,  and  fearing  the  result,  though  not 
expecting  immediate  danger  to  his  life,  sent 
away  little  William  for  a  physician.  But  it  was 
too  late.  A  fatal  disease  was  upon  the  brain, 
so  speedy  in  its  distressing  effects,  that  medi- 
cine could  not  check  its  power.  God  was 
calling  him  home,  and  with  a  heart  almost 
breaking,  his  mother  bowed  above  him, 
and  watched  the  symptoms  of  approaching 
death. 


tl\ 

;'-:!'# 

f-^-'  1 

r    , 

f)  -. 

1' 

i, 

W 

Wi; ; 

ii 

■li    '. 

i» 

It. 

!,'■ 

i: 

% 

■'1 ' . 

#■ 

ih 

■■'■  ■' 

'■  Y : 

Ki 

t. 

■il'  ,1' 

'm 

■  '  ■,    11, 

r  ■ 

W 

1^ 
if 

:!■ 

;;!' 

"  I'' 

P 

It:.! 

li 

\^ 

k{^ 

■'  '  - 

:.!; 

r; 

1  -  :■ 

j  1 

■1 
( 

1} 

'I 

r  ■ 

44 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


r  oi 


m 


He  only  who  formed  that  heart  —  who  had 
once  before  visited  it  in  "disguised  love," 
leaving  it  widowed  and  bereft,  could  now 
measure  its  deep  sorrow,  as  the  dreadful  blow 
was  about  to  fall  upon  it,  again  to  remove  the 
earthly  hope  on  which  she  leaned.  But  He 
who  layeth  waste  can  best  restore.  While 
He  marks  the  degree  of  affliction  needed, 
and  measures  the  sorrow  of  His  suffering 
ones,  His  own  unerring  skill  knows  how  to 
mete  out  consoling  grace  for  the  bitter  mo- 
ment of  trial  here,  and  also,  how  rich  treas- 
ures to  reserve  for  the  mourning,  in  the  bright 
world  where  the  cause  of  every  grief  shall 
be  known,  and  every  sigh  and  tear  receive  its 
just  recompense  of  reward. 

"So  comforted,  and  so  sustained,"  Mrs. 
McCoy  watched  him  as  the  short  breath  grew 
shorter  still;  and  catching  the  last  smile  from 
his  lips,  as  his  spirit  was  departing,  closed 
his  eyes  just  as  the  light  of  the  holy  Sabbath 
morn  was  beaming  upon  the  earth. 


\>v  I 


ROBERT    MCCOY. 


45 


who  had 
(1  love," 
)uld  now 
dful  blow 
move  the 

But  He 
While 

needed, 
suffering 
's  how  to 
liter  mo- 
ch  treas- 
he  bright 

ief  shall 
jceive  its 

a,"  Mrs. 
ith  grew 
lile  from 
^,  closed 
Sabbath 


CHAPTER  VI. 

One  of  the  mildest  days  which  winter  had 
brought  during  all  its  reign,  was  the  Monday 
which  followed  this  Sabbath.  The  very  winds 
seemed  hushed  and  soft  as  spring  time,  as  if 
unwilling  to  add  to  the  widow's  gloom  by  one 
mournful  note.  The  sun  looked  into  the  lov' 
window  of  their  little  room,  with  warm  and 
cheerful  light  —  it  was  shining  for  the  last 
time  upon  the  still  form  there  which  was  so 
recently  rejoicing  in  its  brightness. 

I*  /as  the  burial  day  of  little  Robert. 
But  calm  as  was  the  air,  and  bright  the  sun- 
light, they  could  not  cheer  into  one  moment's 
forgetfulness,  the  hearts  of  those  sincere 
mourners  for  the  dead. 

Desolate  indeed  is  the  dwelling  of  the 
wealthy,  where  sorrow  and  death  are  visit- 
ing; and  a  loneliness  is  there,  which  not  the 
presence  and  sympathy  of  many  friends,  nor 
all  the   pomp  of  riches   can  relieve  ;-»-bu 


U 


"i'  I. 


I 


I 


f: 


M 


& 


•i 


>i  i 


i 


i-l>. 


ft 

f 

p 

X 


II '.i 


.!   > 


■    ! 


.^f 


u 


46 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


when  in  the  abode  of  deep  poverty  the  shad- 
ow of  death  falls,  there  is  gloom  which  nought 
but  the  light  of  God *s  smile  can  penetrate; 
when  from  thence  the  promising  hope  and 
future  support  are  removed,  there  is  a  weight 
of  sorrow  which  presses  the  spirits  down. 

When  the  hour  appointed  for  the  ceremo- 
ny arrived,  a  few  individuals,  some  of  them 
strangers  to  the  afflicted  mother,  who  had  yet 
known  young  Robert,  and  appreciated  his 
worth,  assembled  in  the  small  attic  room  once 
his  home,  but  so  low  it  was  that  scarcely 
could  they  stand  erect.  The  decent  black 
coffin  in  which  he  was  now  laid,  attired  for 
the  grave,  stood  all  uncovered  upon  two 
chairs  in  the  centre  of  the  floor.  The  mother 
in  silent  grief  sat  by  the  head  of  the  departed 
boy,  with  one  arm  encircling  the  pillow  on 
which  it  rested,  as  if  in  sleep;  and  gazing 
steadily  unon  the  dear  remains  with  fondness 
which  could  scarce  relinquish  them  in  these 
last  short  moments  of  possession.  Little 
William  with  calm  brow  stood  by  her  side, 
looking  within  the  coffiin.  The  elder  sister, 
Jane,  hud  come  in  f'mm  hor  place  of  service, 
and  sat   near   tliem,  weeping   aloud.     Little 


i;;'^i:"" 


ROBERT    MCCOY. 


47 


he  shad- 
h  nought 
[jnetrate; 
lope  and 
a  weight 
down, 
ceremo- 
of  them 
o  had  yet 
liated  his 
oom  once 
scarcely 
ent  black 
ttired  for 
pon    two 
le  mother 
departed 
pillow  on 
gazing 
bndness 
in  these 
Littk' 
her  side, 
er  sister, 
Rcivice, 
Little 


Nelly,  Robert's  pet,  though  very  young,  ap- 
peared as  true  a  mourner;  and  seated  upon  a 
block  close   to  the  head  of  the  coffin,  with 
eyes  red  and  swollen   by  tears,  often  sobbed 
and  murmured  something  about  her  Robert. 
Old  Mrs.  Meloy  was  there,  and  a  few  other 
tenants  of  th^  house  had  come  in  to  share  in 
the  sorrowful  exercises.    As  the  kind  hearted 
minister  glanced  upon  the  group  before  him, 
his    heart  melted  with  sympathy;  the  deep 
feelings  of  his   breast  were  traceable  by  the 
flush  upon  his  temples,  and  the  moisture  in 
his   eyes;   and  lookmg   upon  the  young  boy 
whom  he  had  once  so  highly  esteemed,  he  in- 
terrupted the   silence   of  the    apartment  by 
touchingly  uttering  the  words, 

"  He  rests  in  Jesus,  and  is  blest, 
How  sweet  his  slumbers  are !  " 

The  tears  of  all  followed,  and  the  room 
was  again  silent,  intil  standing  by  the  toot 
of  the  open  cofliin,  he  commenced  the  services 
of  the  occasion  with  reading  an  appropri- 
ate hymn.  Faintly  the  song  ascended  from 
that  sad  company,  and  readily  did  they  bow 
in  prayer,  even  those  r.ost  unaccustomed  to 
kneel   before^    as    th«   minister   in   solemn, 


I-' 


1V 


m 


m 


I:  V ' 


■  ' 

i 


I:  '..' 

:  t 

I 


■*  ■ 


#' 


:#• 


.,"i-iri!'i 


*l,: 


48 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


i'l 


I 


'^"0''; 


If*. -IIS 


yi 


m 


!!■ 


heartfelt  expressions  presented  their  petitions 
to  the  Throne  of  mercy. 

When  the  prayer  was  concluded,  the 
gloomy  moment  came  to  seal  up  in  its  long 
sleep  the  lifeless  body.  O,  the  unutterable 
bitterness  of  that  moment  to  the  stricken 
heart!  As  two  men  approached  with  the 
coffin  Yid  and  screws  to  perform  that  duty, 
they  again  stood  back  while  the  mother, 
throwing  her  arm  over  the  cold  bosom  of  her 
son,  wrapped  him  once  more  in  the  last  em- 
brace of  yearning  love;  and  laying  her  face 
by  the  side  of  that  head  she  had  so  often 
cherished  upon  her  own  breast,  sobbingly 
bathed  the  still  hair  with  tears.  William 
wept  aloud;  and  each  of  that  little  family, 
taking  their  last  kiss,  yielded  themselves  up 
to  tears  afresh. 

Violent  had  been  the  mother's  struggle 
with  grief,  but  it  passed  —  calmly  she  saw 
them  securing  the  lid  which  for  ever  hid  him 
from  her  sight;  and  as  they  bore  him  through 
the  narrow  passage  to  the  stairs,  her  eyes 
followed  them,  and  pressing  her  hands  to- 
gether upon  her  knee,  while  her  lips  grew 
very  pale,  she  slightly  moved  her  person  back- 


ROBERT    MCCOV. 


49 


'  petitions 

ided,  the 
a  its  long 
lutterable 

1  stricken 
with  the 

that  duty, 
3  mother, 
jom  of  hej- 
B  last  em- 

2  her  face 
I  so  often 

sobbingly 
William 

le  family, 
selves  up 

struggle 

she  saw 

;r  hid  him 

through 

her  eyes 

lands  to- 

llips  grew 

[son  back- 


.1 


ward  and  forward,  and  still  gazing  through 
the  now  vacant  uoor-way,  her  heart  uttered 
its  agony  in  low,  simple  ejaculations  — 
"Gone!  gone!  —  Robert  —  my  Robert!   my 


good  son  Robert! " 


* 


* 


A  few  months  only  have  gone  by  since  that 
worthily  beloved  boy  has  slept  the  sleep  of 
death.  Grief  and  poverty  are  still  pressing 
upon  the  little  family  who  remain;  but  in 
daily  intercourse  with  God,  they  find  that 
His  love  and  care,  for  which  they  covenanted 
in  giving  their  hearts  to  Him,  are  now  their 
strong  hope. 

'•  Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  Heaven  cannot  heal." 

In  prayer  and  faith  they  know,  as  all  shall 
know  who  seek,  that  God,  even  the  mighty 
God,  spreads  his  tabernacle  of  mercy  above 
their  heads;  and  asking  refuge  there,  they 
are  able  to  rejoice,  though  sorrowful;  to  trust 
unfearingly  that  His  providence  will  supply 
them,  when  unable  to  tell  where  they  shall 
get  their  daily  bread.  Doubts  will  not  live 
within  their  hearts,  for  they  know  that  God 
does  not  forget  nor  forsake  those  who  put 
5 


rV:: 


m 


nil  • 


•vl*' 


ff- 1, 


I 

I 


■m 


■'.[  Itl 


50 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


their  trust  in  Him;  and  they  lean  upon  that 
Gracious  One  who  has  assured  his  trembling 
children,  that  when  every  earthly  comfort  is 
apparently  failing,  He  will  not  fail  them.  It 
is  His  word;  and  though  *'  the  grass  wither- 
eth — the  flower  fadeth  —  the  word  of  our 
God  shall  stand  for  ever." 


'7 


I  ! 


pon  that 
'embling 
mfort  is 
lem.  It 
i  wither- 
1  of  our 


STORY  II.- DENNIS  BROOKS. 


g' 


ifc 


CHAPTER  I. 


1 


There  is  among  the  northern  hills  and 
v&!lies  of  New  England  a  small  village,  so 
retired  from  the  more  busy  part  of  the  world, 
containing  so  few  inhabitants,  and  offering  so 
little  show  or  noise  to  interest  a  stranger, 
that  one  would  scarcely  wish  to  pause  upon 
his  journey  long  enough  for  a  glance  upon 
its  scenery,  unless  its  very  simplicity  and 
quiet  should  attract  his  notice.  It  is  an  old 
town,  and  within  the  memory  of  its  citizens 
scarcely  a  change  has  occurred  in  its  appear- 
ance worthy  of  record.  The  road  runs 
straight  along  by  the  green  hill  side,  and 
between  the  meadows,  just  where  it  did  per- 
haps seventy  or  eighty  years  ago,  when  the 


:vf  ! 


4 


'1 


M 


;r' 


'^A 


52 


THE  WIDOU    S  JEWELS. 


!.,il 


first  of  these  little   brown  farm  houses  was 
built  by  its  margin. 

The  same  small  church  in  which  the  ear- 
liest residents  of  the  village  assembled  to 
worship  from  Sabbath  to  Sabbath,  still  stands 
upon  **  the  green,"  its  square  pews  and 
sloping  galleries  occupied  by  the  children 
and  grand-children  who  have  gradually  pass- 
ed into  the  places  of  those  former  members 
now  gathered  to  the  upper  glorious  sanctua- 
ry in  the  skies.  Then  the  rocks,  and  groves, 
and  streams,  and  trees,  how  little  have  they 
changed,  while  childhood  and  manhood  have 
changed  so  much!  There  too  is  the  very 
school  house  beneath  whose  roof  they  have 
each,  in  turn,  spent  hours  of  childish  pleas- 
ures and  trials.  That  little  red  school 
house,  I  seem  to  see  it  now,  upon  the  very 
edge  of  the  lonely  road  it  stands,  with  but  a 
grassy  bank  between.  An  old  stone  wall, 
gray  with  moss  and  time,  leads  away  from 
each  side  of  the  building,  though  here  and 
there  nearly  levelled  to  the  ground  by  the 
generations  of  children  who  have  quickly 
scrambled  over  it  during  the  short  recess  of 
school  hours,  in  their  haste  to  secure  a  few 


uses  was 

the  ear- 
mblcd  to 
ill  stands 
ews    and 
children 
illy  pass- 
members 
sanctua- 
d  groves, 
ave  they 
lood  have 
the  very 
ley  have 
3h  pleas- 
l    school 
he  very 
Ith  but  a 
e   wall, 
ay  from 
ere  and 
by  the 
quickly 
cess  of 
e  a  few 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


53 


moments  of  precious  delight  in  the  bright 
woodland  standing  so  freshly  and  quietly 
close  behind  it. 

O  how  dear  to  the  children  was  that  small 
woodland;  in  sunshine  and  in  storm  it  always 
had  a  pleasant  aspect.  There  in  cool  and 
balmly  solitude  grew  the  blackberries  and 
checkerberries,  furnishing  to  the  young  seek- 
ers so  palatable  and  seasonable  a  supply, 
that  no  abundance  of  luxuries  could  ever 
afterward  equal  in  enjoyment  that  scanty  but 
welcome  treat.  There  too  the  wild  birds 
poured  on  the  still  air  their  sweetest  songs, 
while  the  tall,  thick  trees  echoed  round  the 
liquid  notes;  and  there,  low  in  the  deep 
shade,  a  little  streamlet  wound  its  clear,  dark 
waters  along,  gurgling  softly  among  the 
mossy  roots  and  branches  in  its  way,  or  flow 
ing  more  broadly  and  thinly  on  over  its  peb- 
bly bed.  Nor  useless  was  its  scarcely  ob- 
served existence  there;  for  well  it  paid  its 
little  passage  on,  by  the  brighter  tints  it 
sent  up  to  the  high  tree  tops  near  it,  and  by 
the  richer  fragrance  and  fairer  hues  it  gave 
to  the  flowery  bank.  Moreover,  it  was  a 
kind  friend  to  the  thirsty  children,  when, 
5* 


M 


I 


i! 

'■1    {    ..i 

■H 

1; 

'     1 

1m 

I'll 

f  'i 

'i; .  1 

■'i    ' 

■1l " 

!■    '1 

1 

:H;vi 

M' 

i  < 

M 

54 


THE  WIDOW  S  JEWELS. 


" !:  e 


1  *ii 


il 


it    -'i,; 


loosed  a  few  moments  from  the  warm  school 
room,  they  hastened  to  its  border,  and  sup- 
plied themselves  with  the  temperance  bless- 
ing; making  drinking  cups  of  the  large 
glossy  leaves  which  leant  over  it,  or  eagerly 
stooping  until  their  lips  met  the  cool  surface. 

I  must  hasten  on  to  the  story;  yet  I  love 
to  let  my  thoughts  visit  that  place  again,  and 
bring  up  their  faithful  picture  of  it,  though 
so  many  years  have  passed  since  last  I 
gazed  upon  the  remembered  scene. 

Across  the   little   stony  road,   opposite  to 
the  school  house,  there  were  here  and  there 
many  bold  gray  rocks  rising  from  the  grass, 
on  which  the  children  used  to  sit  in  groups, 
relating    stories    and   rehearsing    plans,    to 
which  the  very  sheep  and  cows  that  were 
feeding  together  in  the  pasture  beyond  seem- 
ed pi'jased  to  listen.     Daily  would  they  come 
up  to  the  straggling  fence  which  separated 
them  from  the  chatting  company,  and  slowly 
chewing  their  food,  as  they  stood  under  the 
shade  of  the  close  beech  trees,  look  consid- 
erately upon  them  in  their  merry  mood,  as 
if  in  their  sober  years  they  yet  loved  to  hear 
those   voices  of  careless   human   happiness, 


iiii 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


55 


I  school 
id  sup- 
e  bless- 
large 
eagerly 
surface. 
;  I  love 
iln,  and 
though 
last    I 

osite  to 
id  there 
3  grass, 
groups, 
lans,  to 
at  were 
id  seem- 
By  come 
jparated 
1  slowly 
ider  the 
consid- 
nood,  as 
I  to  hear 
ppiness, 


and,  gratified,  turn  their  heads  to  gaze  ap- 
provingly after  the  less  dignified  lambs  that 
leaped  and  gambolled  off  when  loud  shouts 
of  laughter  rang  among  the  tries. 

This  road-side  resort  was,  above  all,  a 
favorite  meeting  place  with  the  boys  of  that 
village  school,  and  often  did  they  assemble 
here  at  the  end  of  its  confinement,  to  com- 
plete the  council  so  unformally  interrupted  at 
recess,  by  the  signal  rap  upon  the  window, 
summoning  them  agam  to  their  strait-backed 
seats. 

I  v.'ish  that  I  could  now  look  back,  and 
trace  the  history  of  the  lads  once  met 
together  in  that  small  school.  As  time  has 
rolled  on,  they  have  left  those  infantile  coun- 
cils, and  have  taken  their  places  in  the  busy 
scenes  of  active  life,  to  struggle  through  the 
trials  and  duties  of  its  appointed  season,  and 
then  go  to  receive  the  reward  according  to 
their  deeds.  Some  of  the  number  have 
doubtless  gone  to  the  grave  in  childhood, 
having  sooner  finished  their  errand  into  the 
world.  In  the  hearts  of  those  who  loved 
them,  there  is  some  record  of  the  course  of 
each,  and  in  the  journal  of  tho  skies  there  is 


iii>-  -  ■ 


■\\  !t;:  || 


.■ ,,  \ 

'|;|i 


i 


;^t' 


41:,,,]' 

;■'!:■■■'!]!■ 

I 


- 1  '■ 

til' 


:r'i 


m 


Wi 


56 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


of  all  a  strict  account.  Of  many  of  them  I 
could  almost  determine  what  has  so  far  been 
thoir  character  in  life,  from  the  words  and 
acts  of  their  boyhood.  So  much  we  can 
learn  of  what  this  character  will  be  from 
those  daily  incidents  in  which  they  take  a 
part,  indulging  or  overcoming  those  disposi- 
tions and  habits  which  will  render  them  use- 
ful or  otherwise. 


CHAPTER  II. 


Of  this  little  circle  of  village  boys,  Dennis 
Brooks  was,  I  think,  the  most  beautiful  in 
person,  and  interesting  in  manner.  If  you 
had  seen  him  as  he  used  to  come  into  school, 
with  his  bright  black  eyes  glancing  smilingly 
around,  his  dark  hair  smoothly  brushed  to 
one  side,  his  fair  round  cheeks  and  full  white 
throat,  from  which  his  neat  shirt  collar  turned 
back,  leaving  it  open  to  view,  you  would 
have  thoi^ght  him  as  handsome  a  lad  as  ever 


I '  I" 


f  them  I 
far  been 
)rds  and 
we  can 
be  from 
i  take  a 
I  disposi- 
lem  use- 


,  Dennis 
utiful  in 
If  you 
)  school, 
imilingly 
ished  to 
till  white 
r turned 
u  would 
as  ever 


DENiNIS    BROOKS. 


57 


pleased  a  mother's  eye — then  he  was  so 
kind  and  gentle  to  all,  none  could  be  more 
beloved  throughout  the  town.  Every  body 
knew  him  as  the  favorite  playmate,  the  bright 
persevering  scholar,  and  affectionate  son. 

Thus  well  prepared,  so  far  as  such  circum- 
stances could  avail,  to  win  his  way  pleasant- 
ly through  life,  and  in  situation  raised  much 
above  the  fear  of  poverty,  he  was  neverthe- 
less in  danger  from  other  sources,  of  failing 
in  the  success  which  these  advantages  seemed 
to  promise.  Genen-us  and  warm  hearted  in 
hi^4  feelings  towards  others,  he  was  careless 
1  ^  atters  concerning  himself,  fond  of  new, 
adventurous  exploits,  and  quite  thoughtless 
of  any  consequences  which  might  result  from 
his  actions.  If  the  boys  of  less  courage 
wished  to  launch  a  boat  upon  the  pond,  but 
were  suspicious  of  its  unsteady  motions  or 
open  cracks,  Dennis,  fearing  no  evil,  was  al- 
ways ready  to  take  an  oar,  and  lead  the  way 
far  out  upon  the  water.  If  a  tree  was  to  be 
climbed,  he  was  always  on  the  alert,  and  soon 
to  be  seen  upon  the  highest  branch,  or  out 
upon  the  farthest  limb,  perhaps  then  dry  and 
decayed,  ready  to  break  beneath  his  weight. 


h  \i 


\ 
,'*  1 


,  ijjii' 


>     \    i 


I  i 


I    I 


h'i, 


i 

B 

I''!:.  J 


58 


THE  WIDOW  S  JEWELS. 


Deprived  of  his  father  at  an  early  age,  he 
had  grown,  up  to  the  present  time,  an  object 
of  great  anxiety  to  his  mother,  and  carefully 
restrained  by  his  eldsr,  more  cautious 
brother.  Mrs.  Brooks  had  but  these  two 
children,  and  while  she  leaned  with  happy 
confidence  upon  the  goodness  and  discretion 
of  Frederic,  the  very  anxiety  she  endured 
for  Dennis,  but  bound  him  more  closely  to 
the  affections  of  her  heart.  And  well  he  loved 
his  mother  too ;  her  voice  could  check  him 
when  most  bent  upon  hiVj  favorite  course, 
or  reproof  from  her  cause  him  at  once  to 
abandon  his  most  desired  pursuit. 

His  mother  felt  and  rejoiced  in  the  influ- 
ence of  her  love  upon  him,  and  relied  much 
upon  its  aid  to  keep  him  in  the  path  of  peace 
and  rectitude  —  but  she  knew  there  must  be 
a  stronger  bond  than  this  to  preserve  him 
safely  amid  the  temptations  of  a  world  of  sin. 
Like  some  fair  plant  growing  by  her  side,  he 
was  lovely  in  character,  but  in  after  years, 
exposed  to  these  many  temptations,  he  might 
lose  that  early  charm  of  innocence,  as  the 
delicate  leaves  and  flowers  of  the  frail  plant 
fade  and  perish  by  the  chill  frosts  of  winter. 


But  on 
and  ev< 
cend  t< 
Dennis 
O,  she 
his  yoi 
Him, 
that  th 
dering 
voice 
be  safe 
him  ai 
ways  ( 


Fri 
ric,  w 
benea 
wise  ( 
made 
for  his 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


59 


age,  he 
in  object 
jarefully 
cautious 
lese  two 
h  happy 
iscretion 
endured 
ilosely  to 
he  loved 
leck  him 
course, 
once  to 

the  influ- 

ied  much 

of  peace 

must  be 

erve  him 

rid  of  sin. 

p  side,  he 

er  years, 

he  might 

e,  as  the 

rail  plant 

)f  winter. 


But  one  remedy  could  save  him;  and  morn 
and  evening  did  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Brooks  as- 
cend to  God  in  prayer,  that  He  would  keep 
Dennis  from  the  evil  that  is  in  the  world. 
O,  she  thought,  could  she  but  see  him  giving 
his  young  heart  in  perpetual  covenant  to 
Him,  her  anxiety  would  cease  —  knowing 
that  though  hereafter  his  feet  might  be  wan- 
dering far  from  her  side,  or  her  restraining 
voice  become  silent  in  death,  he  would  yet 
be  safe,  shielded  by  love  which  would  guard 
him  amidst  dangers,  and  save  him  from  the 
ways  of  sin. 


■■* 


CHAPTER  III. 

Frederic,  the  sedate  and  prudent  Frede- 
ric, who  had  attained  the  age  of  fifteen  years 
beneath  his  mother-^'s  roof — her  friend  and 
wise  counsellor  as  well  as  dutiful  son,  having 
made  choice  of  the  house-carpenter's  trade 
for  his  future  employment  in  life,  was  removed 


,-iV'' 


I' 


111 


fe 


)\ 


y^'k 


■i'\ 


f: 

M 


% 


:.U 


mi 


^m 


m> 


60 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


' ,  I 


a  few  miles  from  his  home,  and  placed  under 
the  caiC  of  a  picjs,  industrious  mechanic  in 
a  neighboring  village.  But  distant  from  the 
presence  of  his  mother,  the  words  of  her  af- 
fectionate advice  were  still  in  his  memory, 
^  I  her  constant  prayers  uttered  in  secret  to 
the  ear  of  her  Heavenly  Father,  were  not  to 
remain  unanswered. 

A  few  weeks  after  he  had  left  them,  Mrs. 
Brooks  received  from  him  a  letter,  containing 
words  of  the  most  cheering  intelligence. 

At  the  close  of  the  day  she  was  sitting  in 
the  little  piazza  before  their  cottage  door, 
holding  in  her  hand  the  valuable  letter;  again 
and  again  she  had  read  it,  and  now,  as  her 
thoughts  were  calmly  dwelling  upon  its  con- 
tents, her  face  was  so  illumined  by  the  pleas- 
ure they  imparted,  that  the  rich  light  beam- 
ing upon  it  from  the  setting  surj,  could  scarce- 
ly add  to  its  brightness. 

She  looked  around  her  upon  the  unhewn 
pillars  of  the  piazza,  and  upward  to  the 
slight  roof  they  supported,  all  of  Frederic's 
own  construction  for  her  comfort ;  then,  as  her 
hopes  arose  in  dependence  upon  his  future 
success,  she  looked  abroad  upon  the  beauti- 


ed  under 
^hanic  in 
from  the 
)f  her  af- 
memory, 
secret  to 
5 re  not  to 

em,  Mrs. 
ontaining 
3nce. 
sitting  in 
age  door, 
er;  again 
w,  as  her 
its  con- 
he  pleas- 
it  beam- 
d  bcarce- 

unhewn 
1  to  the 
rederic's 
n,  as  her 
is  future 
e  beauti- 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


61 


ful  scenery  surrounding  her  abode  —  the 
meadows,  hills  and  woodlands  formed  by  the 
Hand  Divine  —  and  fonder,  holier  hopes 
arose  within  her  breast;  God  was  there  — 
to  Him  she  could  now  with  renewed  confi- 
dence offer  up  the  son  He  had  given  her,  for 
that  son  had  become  a  child  of  God  by  faith 
in  Jesus  Christ. 

Dennis  was  at  a  little  distance,  employed 
among  the  flowers  and  shrubbery  of  their 
garden,  which  he  loved  so  well  to  dress  and 
keep.  Mrs.  Brooks  beckoned  to  him,  and  he 
came  and  took  his  seat  upon  the  bench  by 
her  side. 

**  I  have  received  a  letter  from  Frederic, 
which  gives  me  so  much  delight  that  I  want 
you  to  enjoy  it  with  me,"  said  Mrs.  Brooks. 

**A  letter,  O  good,  good!  "  exclaimed 
Dennis,  jumping  up  and  clapping  his  hands. 
**  Now  for  it!  I  have  been  so  lonesome  that  I 
am  glad  of  even  a  letter — it  will  seem  al- 
most to  bring  the  dear  fellow  back  again.  I 
wonder  if  he  says  any  thing  about  the  little 
mill-T'iieel  down  in  the  brook?  Don't  you 
thiuK,  mother.  Jack  Robinson  and  I  can't 
make  the  great  one  turn  the  two  little  ones 
6 


M 


•;i;  i 


I" 


'(•  i 


■mm 


,;;:i^l 


V';; 


.:f1 


i 


■-'.it 

I, 


l!    ! 


•■J  I 


^;M 


1  ^ 


'i!  'il 


■'■f  -11 


I  i. 


t  It     .i|ll':ltl 


M 


62 


liJ'^:  WIDOW  S  JEWELS. 


.M.  #' 


yet;  Frederic  said  he  wojld  tell  me  in  his 
letter  how  to  manage  them,  after  he  had 
found  out  more  ahout  wheels  in  Mr.  Carter's 
shop." 

**Well,  he  does  not  mention  them  now, 
Dennis,  he  had  not  time  to  write  a  long  let- 
ter, and  his  mind  is  so  much  occupied  with  a 
very  important  subject,  that  I  suppose  he  for- 
got it  this  time." 

**And  what  in  the  world  can  that  be,  I 
wonder,"  said  Dennis,  drawing  nearer  to  his 
mother,  with  a  countenance  expressing  botli 
curiosity  and  disappointment. 

'*You  would  hardly  suppose  what  it  is, 
I  imagine,"  said  Mrs.  Brooks;  and  she 
paused  a  few  moments  ere  fehe  proceeded. 
Dennis  would  gladly  have  interrupted  her 
with  a  multitude  of  impatient  questions,  but 
there  was  in  her  manner  a  certain  calmness 
and  apparent  depth  of  thought  which  awed 
him,  though  he  understood  not  its  cause,  and 
without  raising  his  eyes  to  hers,  sat  whipping 
his  little  willow  stick  around  the  corner  post 
of  the  piazza. 

''Since    Frederic    left    us,"    said    Mrs. 
Brooks,  **he  has  become  acquainted  with  a 


DENI^IS    OROOliS. 


63 


le  in  his 

he    had 

Carter's 

3m  now, 
long  let- 
jd  with  a 
e  he  for- 

lat  be,  I 
•er  to  his 
ing   both 

at  it  is, 
and  she 
oceeded. 
)ted  her 
ions,  but 
calmness 
ch  awed 
.use,  and 
ivhipping 
'ner  post 

id  Mrs. 
id  with  a 


friend  of  ours,  whom  you  do  not  know,  Den- 
nis, who  has  very  kindly  adopted  him  into  his 
family,  and  not  only  gives  him  all  he  needs 
noto  from  day  to  day,  but  has  willed  to  him 
beside  a  large  fortune!  " 

**  Why,  Mother!"  exclaimed  Dennis,  start- 
ing from  the  seat  with  astonishment — **  You 
don't  mean  so.  Mother!  a  fortune  did  you  say  ? 
a  large  fortune!  is  it  true?  "  and  he  reached 
his  hand  to  take  the  letter — **  b.  fortune!  what 
in  the  name  of  goodness  will  he  do  with  it? 
Who  gave  it  to  him,  did  you  say? " 

''Be  quiet,  Dennis,  sit  down  again  and  let 
me  see  you  calm." 

**But  I  am  in  such  a  hurry.  Mother  — 
I  wonder  —  what  —  who  gave  it  to  him?  — 
who  is  that/riewd?  I  can't  think  of  any  body 
who  has  fortunes  to  give  away;  "  and  again 
he  jumped  upon  his  feet,  and  rattled  the  little 
green  stick  swiftly  round  the  knotted  pillar. 

**Iwish  to  see  you  calm,  Dennis,"  said 
his  mother,  and  she  softly  stroked  his  cheek 
with  her  hand. 

"But  isn*t  it  prime,  Mother?"  said  he, 
taking  a  long  brrnth,  and  again  seating  him- 
self— **  I  wonder  what  he  intends  to  do  with 


*:|  ■ 


■i.%  ■ :; 


'i't, 


ft 

r : 


is 


U 


^if 


ml 


mm 


64 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


r 


M 


mi 


t  .Ml 


'/.  "'    ;*l 


all  his  money.  Do  you  think  he  will  come 
home  to  us  soon?  " 

"No,  he  will  not  come  home  at  present," 
said  Mrs.  Brooks,  seriously;  *'  and  the  \for- 
tune,*  as  I  called  it,  Dennis,  which  has  been 
promised  him,  is  not  money;  fhat  you  know 
he  might  lose  in  a  short  time,  were  it  ever  so 
much;  but  it  is  some  thing  far  better  than 
money  —  it  will  last  him  as  long  as  he  shall 
live,  and  be  always  increasing,  too.  The 
friend  who  gave  it  loved  him  too  well  to  give 
him  only  money. ^^ 

"Dear  me,  how  strange!"  said  Dennis, 
musingly — "and  is  he  to  go  and  stay  in  tha* 
family?    Who  did  you  say  the  gentleman  is?" 

"  He  who  has  done  so  much  for  Frederic, 
Dennis,  is  the  oldest  and  best  friend  of  our 
family;  when  I  tell  you  his  name  you  will  re- 
member that  I  have  spoken  to  you  of  him 
sometimes.  Although  I  have  never  seen 
him,  yei  I  have  long  known  him  by  his  kind 
gifts  to  us.     I  love  to  think  of  him." 

"So  shall  I,  I  am  sure;"  said  Dennis, 
eagerly;  "but  will  he  never  come  to  see  us? 
or  is  he  so  rich  and  noble  that  he  would  not 
like  to  visit  us  in  our  cottage? " 


'-'I!  i 


't^:'-k 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


65 


come 

sent," 
e  './or- 
is been 
I  know 
ever  so 
;r  than 
e  shall 
The 
to  give 

)ennis, 

in  tha*. 

an  is?" 

ederic, 

of  our 

will  re- 

of  him 

T   seen 

lis  kind 

Dennis, 
see  us? 
uld  not 


"  He  is  noble  indeed,  Dennis,  and  so  rich 
that  he  gives  to  all  liberally,,  and  though  he 
would  not  disdain  to  visit  us  in  our  humble 
home,  yet  we  shall  never  see  him  here  — 
sometime  I  hope  you  and  I  shall  go  to  him." 

**  But  how  about  Frederic?  do  tell  me 
that." 

*'  Frederic  has  long  known  that  this  friend 
wished  to  make  him  as  his  child,  for  he  has 
sent  him  repeated  invitations,  accompanied 
always  with  the  same  valuable  promises;  but 
Frederic  was  thinking  about  the  school,  and 
about  his  little  garden,  and  then  he  wanted 
time  for  his  plays,  and  all  together,  he  never 
was  quite  ready  to  attend  to  ^im." 

**  Never  ready!  will  he  not  have  larger 
gardens,  richer  and  better  friends  now!  I 
uess  I  should  have  been  ready  in  a  moment 
if  he  had    ent  for  me." 

**yes;  he  is  to  have  *a  hundred  fold 
more,'  even  now,  of  land  and  friends,  besides 
that  beautiful  inheritance  hereafter." 

**But  do  tell  me,  mother,  who  is  this 
friend?  I  suppose  he  lives  very  splendidly 
himself." 

**  Yes;  your  eye  never  gazed  upon  a  place 
6* 


i-  " 


GG 


•  ». 


THE  WIDOW'S  JEWELS. 


mr.:.: 


of  SO  much  beauty  as  is  his  abode,  your  car 
never  heard  of  riches  so  vast  as  he  possesses, 
and  in  your  heart  you  never  conceived  of  any 
thing  so  delightful  and  so  desirable  as  his 
favor.  Frederic,  I  know,  had  thought  much 
about  it,  yet  he  says  in  his  letter,  that  little 
as  he  yet  knows  of  this  friend,  the  half  was 
never  told  him.'* 

*'Dear  me,  how  strange  it  docs  seem!" 
again  exclaimed  Dennis;  "I  dare  say  he 
wishes  now  he  had  not  staid  away  so  long." 

"  That  he  does,  Dennis.  After  leaving  us 
here  he  was  very  lonesome  at  first,  and  al- 
most felt  as  if  none  cared  for  him,  when  he 
received  another  invitation  from  his  kind 
Benefactor.  He  had  sent  so  many  to  him 
before,  and  Frederic  had  treated  them  all  so 
carelessly,  that  he  feared  justly,  if  he  should 
not  attend  to  this  one,  our  good  friend  would 
never  favor  him  with  another,  deciding  in 
wrath,  that  he  should  never  enter  his  happy 
dwelling  place.  Accordingly,  covered  with 
shame  for  his  past  neglect,  and  trembling 
with  fear  lest  he  should  meet  the  reproof  he 
so  much  deserved,  or  at  least  be  but  coldly 
received,  he  presented   himself  before  our 


ur  car 

sessos, 

of  any 

as  his 

it  much 

It   little 

alf  was 

seem! " 

say  he 

long." 

iving  us 

and  al- 

v'hen  he 

lis    kind 

to  him 

m  all  so 

i  should 

d  would 

iding  in 

s  happy 

ed  with 

embling 

n'oof  he 

t  coldly 

ore  GUP 


DENNIS   niiooKs. 


C7 


friend,  offoringto  dovote  his  life  to  him,  would 
he  but  receive  him  graciously;  and  (),  Den- 
nis! this  kind  One  met  him  not  in  anger  or 
coldness,  but  with  a  smile  of  love,  he  cheered 
him,  calling  him  *  Son,'  and  bidding  him  wel- 
come to  every  thing  he  can  desire  from  day 
to  day;  promising,  should  he  continue  seek- 
ing to  please  him,  after  a  short  time,  to  bring 
him  into  possession  of  that  dengiitful  plac^ 
He  is  preparing  for  him  —  nor  for  him  alone." 

**  O,  Mother,"  said  Dennis,  while  a  flush  of 
emotion  covered  his  cheeks,  "  I  ivish  I  could 
go;  does  Frederic  say  nothing  about  thai!  ' 

*'  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Brooks,  uying 
her  hand  impressively  upon  his  head,  and 
looking  steadily  into  his  full  bright  eyes  — 
**  Frederic  did  say  he  wished  you  too  would 
join  him;  he  has  asked  this  friend  to  receive 
you,  and  is  delighted  to  know  that  He  wishes 
to  do  so.  Next  Sabbath  he  is  to  be  formally 
adopted  into  his  family,  and  will  be  called 
by  His  name." 

**You  have  not  yet  told  me  what  that 
name  is." 

**  Frederic  will  be  called  a  Christian  now, 
Dennis;  Jesus  Christ  is,  you  know,  one  of 


'  4 


^( 


f 


"I 


'I    L 


f 


* 


68 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


'■'■i 


the  names  of  our  *  Best  Friend.*  He  it  is 
who  has  been  all  our  lives  long  doing  us 
good:  who,  though  surpassingly  rich  and 
glorious,  yet  will  condescend  spiritually  to 
visit  us  in  our  little  cottage,  owning  us  as 
children  of  His  family  —  the  family  of  angels 
and  saints,  prophets  and  martyrs — promis- 
ing us  happiness  now,  and  when  this  life 
shall  end.  He  it  is  who  has  promised  to  re- 
ceive us,  if  prepared,  into  His  own  glorious 
kingdom.  There  are  those  rich  estates, 
those  choice  friends,  those  glad  scenes  which 
pass  not  away  —  spiritual  —  holy  —  eternal. 
**  Now,  Dennis,  think  — a  moment  think. 
Remember  what  I  have  said,  and  tell  me  — 
will  you  continue  to  refuse  the  many  invita- 
tions which  God  is  sending  you  to  inherit 
these.  Think  >vhether  you  can  in  any  other 
way  gain  as  much  happiness,  even  in  this 
world.  Just  now  you  would,  as  you  said, 
have  been  *  ready  in  a  moment '  to  accept 
an  earthly  fortune,  could  such  be  offered  you 
— how  much  rather  then  be  ready  to  receive 
this  incomparably  more  valuable  portion, 
though  you  may  have  to  deny  yourself  of 
some    small    things    sinful    in    themselves. 


Then] 
secure 
or  ma} 
enjoy 
who,  i 
name 

Den 
he  wej 
possibJ 
away  1 
sports 
his  mil 
wards 
yield 
arount 
and  w 
choose 
joying 
in  vital 
to  slig 
and  f 
farthe 

joy»  ^^ 
world 

motht 

God. 


\tiM 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


69 


e  it  is 
ing  us 
3h  and 
tally  to 
us  as 
angels 
3romis- 
his  life 
d  to  re- 
^lorious 
estates, 
js  which 
eternal, 
t  think. 
II  me  — 
Y  invita- 
)  inherit 
ay  other 
i  in  this 
3U  said, 
0  accept 
;red  you 
receive 
portion, 
irself  of 
mselves. 


Then  you  will  have  all  these  delightful  hopes 
secured  to  you,  and  as  you  grow  up  in  life, 
or  may  be  called  suddenly  to  death,  you  will 
enjoy  the  protection  and  blessing  of  One, 
who,  above  all  others,  '  best  deserves  the 
name  of  Friend.'  " 

Dennis' head  drooped  upon  his  bosom  — 
he  wept,  but  answered  not;  and  as  soon  as 
possible,  taking  a  moment  of  silence  to  steal 
away  from  his  mother's  side,  sought,  in  the 
sports  of  the  following  hour,  to  drive  from 
his  mind  thoughts  of  God  and  of  his  duty  to- 
wards him.  Day  after  day  he  neglected  to 
yield  his  heart  to  Him;  a  year  came  thus 
around,  and  then  another,  and  another  came 
and  went,  and  he  was  still  not  *  ready  '  to 
choose  the  better  part  which  Frederic  was  en- 
joying. Heedless  of  the  preciousness  of  the 
invitations  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  he  continued 
to  slight  them,  until  they  were  becoming  few 
and  far  between;  and  he,  daily  wandering 
farther  from  the  flowery  paths  of  Christian 
joy,  was,  in  after  life,  abroad,  alone  in  the 
world,  without  the  restraining  voice  of  a 
mother's  cautions,  and  without  the  love  of 
God. 


mm 


.      In 


■■if 


I 


;:jiJ": 


70 


THE  WIDOW  S  JEWELS. 


quiri 
ated 


WM 


CHAPTER  IV. 

After  a  very  cold  day  in  the  winter  of 
1835,  the  winds  were  risen  violently,  and  the 
snow  was  drifted  along  by  them  with  swift- 
ness and  force  which  added  keenness  to  the 
freezing  air,  and  increased  gloom  to  that 
chill  evening.  Twilight  deepened  into  dark- 
est night;  a  stage  coach  drew  wearily  up  be- 
fore the  door  of  one  of  the  hotels  in  the  city 

of  B ,  and  an  aged  woman  alighted  alone, 

so  benumbed  with  cold,  fatigue,  and  infirm- 
ity, that  it  was  with  much  difficulty  she  could 
follow  the  quick  steps  of  the  servant-man, 
through  the  hall  into  an  apartment  assigned 
to  strangers.  The  room  was  brilliantly  light- 
ed, and  cheeringly  warm,  but  several  were 
there,  ladies  and  children,  and  without  lay- 
ing aside  her  cloak  and  hood,  as  she  seated 
herself  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  room,  she 
would  gladly  have  shrunk  from  the  bright 
light  which  discovered  to  her  at  once  the  in- 


llh 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


71 


viriter  of 
,  and  the 
ith  swift- 
3SS  to  the 
1  to  that 
nto  dark- 
[\y  up  be- 
1  the  city 
ed  alone, 
d   infirm- 
she  could 
ant-man, 
assigned 
itly  light- 
ral  were 
lout  lay- 
le  seated 
oom,  she 
He  bright 
e  the  in- 


quiring glance  of  the  travellers,  now  associ- 
ated with  her  for  a  short  time.  Their  busy 
conversation  was  however  scarcely  interrupt- 
by  her  entrance,  and  the  old  lady  in  her  seat, 
removed  from  their  cheerful  circle,*  turned 
her  face  toward  the  window,  and  was  so  oc- 
cupied with  the  train  of  her  own  reflections 
as  to  be  totally  unobservant  of  the  words  and 
smiles  of  those  around  her. 

The  many  stores  of  that  usually  busy  street 
were  now  closed  for  the  night,  and  the  dark- 
ness was  but  faintly  penetrated  by  the  lamps 
which,  here  and  there  stationed  along  the 
sidewalks,  now  glimmered  through  the  storm. 
All  within  that  stranger's  room  was  forgotten 
by  her;  all  without  was  indeed  gloomy,  but 
it  was  like  the  state  of  her  own  mind,  dark- 
ened by  sorrow,  agitated  by  stormy  fears, 
yet  with  some  rays  of  hope  to  cheer  a  little 
the  cold  scene.  O!  who  knows  the  weary- 
ing anxiety,  the  bitter  disappointment  which 
presses  upon  a  mother's  heart  when  the  child 
of  her  early  love  and  early  care,  of  her  fondest 
and  long  hoping  prayer,  is  apparently  regard- 
less of  every  admonition,  pursuing  his  own  way 
steadily  on  to  evil!     Such  a  son  had  Dennis 


'i  mm 


n 


M 


f 

.,  if 


m 


1 


72 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


■.'If 


'l:i 


Brooks  now  become,  and  such  was  the  sor- 
row of  that  old  lady,  his  mother,  as  she  sat, 
without  a  friend,  in  one  of  the  pub'  ;  rooms 
of  that  city  inn. 

No  ,vonder  that  her  heart  was  bleeding, 
as  lo<  kirg  out  upon  the  solitary  street,  she 
was  calling  up  before  her  mind  the  image  of 
that  still  beloved  son,  as  he  used  to  look 
when  standing,  an  affectionate  and  happy 
boy,  by  her  side.  She  remembered  how  she 
had  talked  to  him  of  God,  and  warned  him  to 
seek  his  favor,  that  he  might  be  kept  from 
sin;  and  she  remembered  how  he  would  turn 
his  head  away,  though  tears  were  in  his 
eyes,  and  in  a  few  minutes  seem  to  forget  all 
she  had  said  to  him;  and  she  remembered 
how  anxious  then  she  felt,  lest,  if  he  lived  to 
be  a  man,  his  life  would  be  like  those  who 
have  no  fear  of  God;  and  then  she  remem- 
bered, too — and  there  was  comfort  in  the 
thought,  sweet  as  words  dropped  from  some 
angel's  sympathetic  lips  —  she  remembered 
the  earnestness  of  the  prayers  which  she  had 
ever  daily  ofl?ered  before  the  throne,  that  the 
Spirit  of  God  might  not  depart  from  him, 
even  though  he  should  forget  the  dear  home 


3  the  sor- 

she   satj 

►lie  rooms 

bleeding, 
treet,  she 
!  image  of 
i  to  look 
rid  happy 
d  how  she 
led  him  to 
kept  from 
^ould  turn 
re  in  his 
forget  all 
nembered 
e  lived  to 
hose  who 
e  remem- 
)rt  in  the 
i-om  some 
nembered 
h  she  had 
V,  that  the 
rom  him, 
ear  home 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


73 


ti'tl 


of  his  boyhood,  the  mother  who  watched  him 
there,  and  the  God  whose  hand,  unseen,  sup- 
plied every  want, — that  still  he  might  not  be 
forgotten  of  God — that  not  iJien,  nor  till  the 
end,  might  the  ever  blessed  Spirit  depart 
from  him.  Ay,  she  rested  by  this  remem- 
brance. Like  a  light  shining  amid  a  dark 
place,  it  still  imparted  hope,  for  she  knew 
that  God  does  hear  a  mother's  prayer,  and 
silently  now  she  added  yet  another  petition, 
that  He  would  strengthen  her  faith,  soothe 
her  sorrow,  and  if  it  might  please  Him, 
restore  to  her  eyes  and  home  that  wayward 
son  whom  she  was  now  seeking. 

While  these  thoughts  were  passing  through 
her  mind,  tears  had  frequently  traced  their 
way  downward  from  wrinkle  to  wrinkle 
o'er  her  cheeks,  and  with  a  handkerchief 
already  moistened  at  the  same  source, 
she  noiselessl}'  wiped  them  away.  The 
company  whose  voices  were  mingling  to- 
gether in  merry  conversation  around  the 
cheerful  fire,  gradually  became  silent,  as 
their  hearts  were  touched  by  the  sorrow  of 
the  old  lady,  and  feeling  that  words  offered 
from  their  mixed  circle  to  her,  would  be  but 
7 


h 


,li , 


m\i 


i-i.K 


■m 


11: 


;■  'mm 


t 


74 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


1. 


obtruding  upon  her  grief,  soon  one  by  one 
withdrew  to  rest. 

A  lady  who  had  felt  deeply  for  her  iniknown 
companion,  and  who  had  teiidcrly  offered  her 
the  comfortable  seat  she  was  herself  occupv- 
ing,  now  tarried  behind  the  others,  resolved 
if  possible   to  relieve  her  sadness   ere    she 
should    sleep.      When   all   wero   gone^    su3 
went  kindly  up  to  Mrs.  Brooks,  and  taking 
her   hand   with    the    affeotionatentisj    of    a 
daughter,   again  begged  he?  to  accept  the 
Boit  rocking-chair  she  had  placed  for  her  in 
ii  shaded  corner  by  the  fire.     The  old  lady 
yielded;  this  point  gained,  her  young  friend 
volunteered  to  procure  for  her  a  dish  of  tea, 
or  bowl  of  gruel,  seeing  that  in  the  grief  of 
her  heart  she  had  declined  supper.     Won  by 
the  unexpected  kindness,  Mrs,  Brooks  con- 
sented that  some  gruel  should  be  prepared 
for  her.     After  partaking  more  freely  of  it 
than  an  hour  before  she  would  have  thought 
it  possible  to  do,  her  heart  seemed  cheered, 
and  the  young  lady,  already  more  interested 
by  the  efforts  she  had  made  for  her  comfort, 
now  drew  her  chair  closer,  and  with  conver- 
sation, though   on   indifferent   subjects,   yet 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


75 


J  by  one 

unknown 
fered  her 

'occupv- 
resolved 

ere  she 
one,  su9 
d  taking 
sj  of  a 
:cept  the 
»r  her  in 
old  lady 
ig  friend 
h  of  tea, 

grief  of 

Won  by 
oks  con- 
prepared 
ely  of  it 

thought 
cheered, 
iterested 

comfort, 
I  conver- 
3cts,    yet 


pleasing,  through  the  goodness  of  her  motive, 
soon  led  her  into  more  social  mood,  till,  with 
that  comfortable  freedom  which  the  bestow- 
ment  of  kindness  and  sympathy  ever  creates, 
Mrs.  Brooks  soon  gave  her  new  friend  a  gen- 
eral relation  of  circumstances  in  her  history, 
reserving  until  the  last  the  causesof  the  griet 
now  weighing  upon  her,  and  which  had  caus- 
ed her  to  leave  the  quiet  of  her  retired  home, 
and  expose  herself  to  the  fatigues  of  so  long 
a  journey  at  that  inclement  season. 

**  I  suppose  you  have  perhaps  thought  it 
strange,"  began  the  old  lady,  with  all  the 
frankness  of  long  acquaintance,  **that  I 
should  allow  myself  in  so  much  manifestation 
of  my  troubles  before  strangers,  as  you  and 
others  must  have  observed  to-night.  Once 
I  should  have  thought  so,  too,  and  should 
have  concealed  my  tears  more  successfully; 
but  I  am  old  now,  and  old  age  cannot  always 
bear  up  under  the  touch  of  sorrow  as  cheer- 
ful, hoping  youth  can  do.  A  widow  of  sev- 
enty winters  must  be  pardoned  for  tears 
which  will  sometimes  flow  in  their  long  accus- 
tomed track.  I  do  not  mean  that  I  have  had 
more  trouble  than  the  most  of  folk;  no,  I 


1  .hw 


1  f    J,!, 


1 '].; 


f,j 


''i'ilS 


n 
f' 

;'^; ;.!,!. 


I 


I    ;t 


aA\ 


ft 


r: , 


76 


THE  VVIDOW^S  JEWELS. 


I    i 


think  I  have  had  less,  far  less,  certainly,  than 
many  who  have  made  hetter  returns  for  their 
daily  comforts;  but  yet  I  have  had  my  trials; 
this  life  is  all  along  a  scene  of  trials,  great 
and  small;  there  is  scarcely  any  one  who 
has  come  to  my  years,  who  has  not  reason  to 
say,  with  the  good  old  patriarch,  *  Few  and 
evil  have  the  days  of  the  years  of  my  life  been.* 
**  I  had  a  kind  husband  once,  but  when  I 
seemed  to  love  him  best,  and  most  to  value 
his  care  and  council,  he  was  taken  from  me; 
many  long  years  he  ha^  been  with  the  dead 
— yet  I  trust,  with  the  glorious  company  of 
the  '  living.^  Two  little  sons  were  left  me. 
I  used  to  think,  as  I  looked  upon  them  after 
mv  husband's  death,  that  it  would  be  a  hard 
n  '  for  me  to  bring  them  up  aright,  and 
take  care  of  them  alone,  but  I  found  that  after 
all  I  did  not  have  to  do  it  alone.  Standing  by 
the  coffin  of  their  father,  I  renewedly  gave 
them  up  to  their  Heavenly  Guardian,  and 
whenever  I  was  afterwards  in  doubt  what 
course  to  take,  some  thmg  seemed  always  to 
whisper  out  the  best  way.  Remember,  my 
dear  young  friend,  God  gives  to  prayerful 
mothers  the  right  to  ask  of  Him  the  grace 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


77 


[ily,  than 
for  their 
\y  trials; 
Is,  great 
[)ne  who 
cason  to 
^'ew  and 
febeen.' 
;  when  I 
to  vahie 
rom  me; 
the  dead 
npany  of 
left  me. 
!m  after 
e  a  hard 
ght,  and 
hat  after 
iding  by 
dly  gave 
an,  and 
ibt  what 
Iways  to 
)ber,  my 
)rayerful 
le  grace 


they  need;  O  yes,'*  said  she,  tears  again  fill- 
ing her  eyes — "the  grace  they  need  in 
every  trying  circumstance.  He  knows  the 
end  from  the  beginning;  I  know,  I  feel  that 
He  will  forsake  none  who  put  their  trust  in 
Him. 

"My  home  was  a  comfortable  one  —  it 
was  plain  but  comfortable,  and  my  two  little 
boys  were  such  a  stock  of  happiness  to  me, 
that  I  thought  myself  unusually  blessed;  but, 
as  I  said  before,  this  is  a  world  of  trials  — 
though  our  path  may  for  a  time  appear  to  be 
free  from  them,  yet  there  is,  after  all,  but  a 
few  smooth  steps  in  a  place. 

"  My  little  sons  were   always  affectionate 
and   attentive  to  me,   but  as  they  grew  in 
years,  they  became  somewhat  restless,  and 
did  not  like  the  thought  of  spending  their 
days  upon  our  small  farm,  or  within  the  quiet 
little    village  where   we    lived.      I   was  un- 
willing to  bind  down  the  spirit  of  enterprise 
which  they  manifested,   and   thought  it  not 
wise   to   cross  their  reasonable  inclinations 
respecting  their  future  employment  in  life;  I 
therefore  concluded  to  yield  to  them  cautious- 
ly as  to  their  situations,  booing  still,  that  after 
"7  * 


Um 


,'j.(|( 


, 


If 


€• 


.'.)  :it> 


..i    I 


!l|tp 


ijil'!: 


ii  '^4 


I     i':\ 


'  i!; 


78 


THE  WIDOW  S  JEWELS. 


{•% 


M 


w 


■m^ 


some  experience  amid  the  agitations  and  per- 
plexities of  a  busy  world,  they  might  be  glad 
to  return  to  the  calm  scenes  of  their  early 
days. 

**  P^'rederic  was  my  eldest,  and  a  thought- 
ful, judicious  lad  he  always  was.  I  used  to 
calculate  upon  his  judgment  almost  as  much 
as  if  he  were  a  man,  for  he  never  did  things 
like  many  boys  —  without  care  whether  it 
would  turn  out  well  or  ill  in  the  end,  or 
whether  any  one  else  would  be  favored  or 
troubled  by  it,  whatever  it  might  be;  but  in- 
dustrious, planning  and  kind,  he  went  about 
every  thing  soberly,  and  kept  steadily 
at  it  till  it  was  done,  and  then  it  was  always 
tvell  done.  I  had  very  little  anxiety  but  that 
he  would  do  well  in  the  world,  and  so  far  he 
has;  for  what  he  was  in  his  business  life, 
that  he  has  ever  been  in  his  Christian  char- 
acter,  and   now  he  lives  in  -.     He  is 

an  industrious  carpenter — has  been  pros- 
pered much  in  his  trade,  though  he  has  kept 
clear  of  speculations  and  'money  chances.' 
He  is  moreover  much  loved  by  his  appren- 
tices, of  which  he  has  several,  and  by  all 
who  know  him.     He  is  one  of  the  Selectmen 


DEN     'S    DROOKS. 


79 


and  pcr- 
t  be  glad 
[)ir  early 


thought- 
[  used  to 
as  much 
id  things 
liether  it 
end,  or 
vored  or 
;  but  in- 
nt  about 
steadily 
s  always 
but  that 
o  far  he 
ess  life, 
an  char- 
He  is 
n  pros- 
las  kept 
lances.' 
appren- 
by  all 
lectmen 


of  the  town  —  Chairman  of  the  School  Com- 
mittee—  Treasurer  of  the  Mechanics'  As- 
sociation—  and  l^resident  of  their  Tempe- 
rance Society,  from  whose  meetings  he  is 
never  absent;  and  so  frequent  have  been  his 
visits  to  their  Hall,  that  the  neighbors  say, 
when  his  dog  gets  olf  his  master's  track,  he 
is  often  to  be  seen  trotting  alone  up  over  the 
hill  towards  the  building,  wagging  his  tail, 
and  pricking  his  ears  in  certain  expectation 
of  finding  him  there. 

'*  Then,  too,  the  poor  and  the  orphan  love 
him  and  seek  his  advice;  and  his  word  given 
in  promise  is,  they  say,  as  good  as  a  note  of 
hand.  Every  year  he  comes  and  makes  me 
a  good  visit,  and  tries  to  prevail  upon  me  to 
leave  my  farm  and  go  to  live  with  him;  but 
old  people  love  their  old  homesteads,  and 
I  could  never  yet  be  willing  to  think  of  leav- 
ing to  strangers  the  rooms  where  my  husband 
and  I  sat  together  in  our  youth  —  where  our 
children  were  born,  and  from  which  ho  went 
up  to  our  better  home;  no,  it  is  still  to  me 
like  a  little  place  of  sunny  evergreens  in 
winter  time.  It  is  true  I  feel  that  seventy 
miles  is  a  great  ways  for  Frederic  to  live 


.h 


m- 


t 


,  'I'" ,'' 


:& 


80 


THE  WIDOW'S  JE\VEl,S. 


IV  <>- 


ml 


V 


irom  me,  but  I  do  not  compluin,  he   is  with 
his   rising   family  around  him  —  a  good  son 
still,  and,  though  distant,  a  great  comfort  to 
me.     For  he  is   useful  there,   I  think,  just 
where  Providence  would  have  him  be  —  and 
I  believe  he  is  a  faithful  Christian,  which  is 
a  source   of  more  joy  to    me   than    all   the 
praises  and  titles  that  man  can  bestow  upon 
him.      He    is   one    of  the    deacons    in   the 
church,  and  his  minister,  who  is  an  excellent 
man,  told  me  when  I  was  there  last,  that  he 
depended  almost  as  much  upon  Frederic's 
prayers  and  good  example  among  his  people, 
as   he   did    upon   his    own    efforts,    and   he 
thought  that  really  he  accomplished  about  as 
much  good  as  he  did,  he  is  so  consistent,  and 
persevering,  and  active.     You  may  be  sure, 
my  young  friend,  such  words  are  no  small 
comfort  to  a  Mother^s  heart." 


CHAPTER  V. 


While  the  old  lady  was  thus  humbly  set- 
ting forth  the  praises  of  Frederic,  he'*  heart 


DENNIS    miOOK.^j. 


81 


e  is  with 
good  son 
omfort  to 
link,  just 
be  —  and 

which  is 
1  all  the 
"tow  upon 
s  in  the 
excellent 
t,  that  he 
Frederic's 
is  people, 
,  and  he 
1  about  as 
stent,  and 
^  be  sure, 

no  small 


umbly  set- 
he''  heart 


scorned  'norc  and  more  to  warm  towards  hitn 
in  its  aHections  and  interests,  by  the  picture 
of  his  goodness  which  dwelt  so  vividly  in  her 
own  mind;  she  for  the  moment  forgot  the 
circumstances  of  anxiety  which  often  made 
her  life  bitter  and  desolate;  and  sitting  smil- 
ingly in  the  rocking  chair,  her  spectacles 
raised  in  her  enthusiasm,  and  resting  above 
her  cap-border,  her  eye  brightening  with  the 
honest  pride  and  gratitude  of  her  heart;  and 
her  countenance  in  brief  cheerfulness  reflect- 
ing doubly  back  the  light  of  the  glowing  fire, 
her  stranger  companion  thought  she  had 
never  looked  upon  a  more  pleasing  exempli- 
fication of  the  power  which  a  dutiful  son  pos- 
sesses, to  fill  the  cup  of  a  mother's  existence 
with  cordial  blessings. 

"But,"  continued  she,  looking  down  and 
sighing  deeply,  **such  circumstances,  my 
dear  friend,  are  the  '  smooth  steps  '  in  my 
path,  which  sometimes  make  me  forget  the 
wearisomeness  of  my  long  pilgrimage.  I 
had  yet  another  son,  a  very  Joseph  to  my 
heart;  O  he  ivas  a  noble  boy  —  and  I  loved 
him  as  earnestly,  and  hoped  as  strongly  in 
him  as  ever  mother's  love  could  do,  though 


'I 

!l 

♦: 

'li 
'    i'! 


)!•. 


>  ]!li 


1  ',1   !' 


H. 


1  If 


I' 


r 


1". 


'I  I.  lift! 


82 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


Ji 


,"!<« 


withal  I  feared  the  more,  the  more  I  watched 
and  loved.     O  Dennis!  Dennis!  " 

The  old  lady*s  chin  quivered,  and  turning 
away  her  head,  struggling  with  her  emotion, 
she  compressed  her  lips,  and  swallowing  re- 
peatedly, as  if  she  would  thus  fain  check  the 
risings  of  o'er-mastering  sorrow,  she  was 
silent  a  moment,  then  calmly  returned  to  her 
relation  of  the  past,  though  frequently  paus- 
ing with  the  remembrance  of  troubles  which 
it  was  hard  for  her  to  bring  into  words. 
Often  when  she  spoke  his  name,  the  furrows 
upon  her  brow  would  for  an  instant  approach 
nearer  to  each  other,  for  its  very  sound  vi- 
brated upon  her  soul  with  a  keenness  of  feel- 
ing which  cannot  be  uttered. 

**He  was  good,  a  very  good  boy  gene- 
rally,*'continued  she,  *'and  grieved  to  give 
me  pain,  but  yet  he  always  loved  to  have  his 
own  way.  When  a  little  boy  he  would  read- 
ily yield  this  to  any  command  or  wish  of  mine, 
but  when  he  became  older,  he  appeared  to 
have  a  pride  about  doing  as  he  thought  best, 
which  made  me  afraid  that  he  would  not  al- 
ways get  along  well,  for  he  was  not  the  most 
careful  or  wise  in  his  proceedings;    and  I 


•'Ill  ill;".' 

Ml' 


w^atched 

turning 
amotion, 
ving  re- 
beck the 
she  was 
id  to  her 
\y  paus- 
es which 
)   words. 

furrows 
ipproach 
lound  vi- 
3  of  feel- 

)y  gene- 
1  to  give 
have  his 
lid  read- 
of  mine, 
eared  to 
jht  best, 
1  not  al- 
the  most 
s;    and  I 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


83 


feared  his  hasty,  proud  judgment  would  lead 
him  into  manv  difficulties,  in  a  world  where 
every  body  must  sometimes  give  place  to 
another's  wish. 

*' Yet  he  was  truly  warm  hearted  and  af- 
fectionate, and  so  kind  to  the  aged,  that  the 
oldest  and  poorest  inhabitants  in  our  village 
used  to  call  him  '  Son  Dennis.'  He  was  gen- 
erous, and  would  gladly  give  the  last  penny 
in  his  pocket  to  any  one  in  want.  He  was 
attentive  to  all  meetings,  and  particularly 
respectful  to  the  minister,  and  to  any  one 
who  appeared  to  love  the  Lord  Jesus  —  but 
he  would  not  give  his  own  heart  to  His  ser- 
vice. Therefore  I  had  a  great  many  fears 
on  his  account,  and  many  a  sleepiest^  iiigut 
I  passed,  both  before  and  after  I  had  given 
my  consent  to  his  going  from  home. 

*'It  had  been  my  aim  to  keep  him  with 
me,  to  be  my  company,  and  to  take  care  of 
the  farm;  for  though  he  had  some  faults,  I 
so  loved  to  see  him  come  in,  his  face  ever 
bright  and  smiling,  his  voice  and  words  kind 
and  cheerful,  and  his  ready  'yes,  mother,' 
to  all  I  had  to  say,  were  so  pleasant,  that  I 
thought  certainly  we  should   be  very  happy 


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with  each  other.  Then,  too,  I  thouglit  I 
could  watch  over  him  so  carefully,  that,  with 
the  blessing  of  God,  he  would  be  kept  from 
the  evils  he  might  be  led  into,  should  he  go 
out  into  a  world  of  temptation  with  these  just 
commencing  faults. 

''  But  he  was  ever  delighted  with  the 
thought  of  some  thing  new;  and  the  idea  of 
standing  behind  the  counter  and  selling  a 
variety  of  goods  to  a  variety  of  people,  was 
so  captivating  to  his  mind,  that  when  I  at- 
tempted to  dissuade  him  from  it,  he  became 
sad  and  disappointed,  and  so  disheartened  at 
what  he  regarded  as  my  want  of  confidence 
in  him,  that  I  was  much  troubled.  The  lit- 
tle garden  and  orchard  he  had  once  loved  so 
well,  seemed  really  to  have  changed  to  him, 
with  every  thing  else;  each  duty  was  a  task, 
and  each  day  an  unpleasant  one. 

"At  last  I  gave  reluctant  consent  that  he 
should  go  into  the  store  of  a  neighboring  vil- 
lage, and  then  every  thing  changed  again  — 
he  was  so  happy,  and  the  world  appeared  so 
bright  before  him,  that  he  danced  liom  house 
to  barn  and  from  barn  to  house  until  the 
morning  of  his  departure.     That  was  a  fair 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


85 


ought  I 
I  at,  with 
pt  from 
\  he  go 
lese  just 

ith    the 

idea  of 

idling  a 

pie,  was 

en  I  at- 

became 

rtened  at 

>nfidence 

The  lit- 

loved  so 

d  to  him, 

LS  a  task, 

t  that  he 
oring  vil- 

again  — 
peared  so 
om  house 

until  the 
as  a  fair 


morning;  he  was  then  fifteen  years  old,  and 
delighted  beyond  measure  with  being  so  much 
a  man  for  himself. 

*'0,  how  well  I  now  remember  his  appear- 
ance then,  while  he  waited  the  arri  v  il  of  the 
tardy  stage  coach,  when  standing  as  straight 
before  the  looking-glass,  and  appearing  as 
tall  as  possible,  for  the  twentieth  time  in  an 
hour,  he  would  arrange  his  cravat,  or  straight- 
en down  and  smooth  his  nice  new  clothes,  then 
walking  with  longer,  heavier  steps  than  usual, 
pace  about  the  room  so  proudly  —  ah,  he 
little  knew  the  anxiety  I  felt  at  the  very 
thoughts  which  were  affording  him  so  much 
pleasure.  But  while  I  looked  upon  him, 
handsome  and  interesting  as  he  was,  I 
thought  how  many  lads,  who  had  thus  left 
their  homes  with  innocent  and  happy  hearts, 
had  yielded  little  by  little  to  bad  and  sinful 
habits,  until  they  had  brought  themselves  to 
early  ruin,  and  their  parents  and  friends  to 
sorrow  which  could  not  be  comforted. 

"With  repeated  and  varied  warnings  and 
advice,  I  had  filled  up  the  hours  of  our  inter- 
course during  the  days  previous,  and  he  had 
filled  up  every  pause  I  left  with  promises. 
8 


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86 


THE  WIDOW'S  JEWELS. 


But  this  morning  I  could  say  nothing,  do 
nothing,  only  look  upon  him,  and  in  silent 
communing  with  Him  who  is  every  Tvhere 
present,  continually  commend  him  to  His 
care. 

**  From  time  to  time  I  had  the  satisfaction 
of  hearing  that  he  was  doing  well  for  his  em- 
ployer, and  was  very  attentive  to  the  cautions 
he  had  received  from  me.  His  pleasing 
looks  and  cheerful  manners  won  the  favor  of 
customers,  and  he  was  becoming  quite  a  val- 
uable assistant  to  his  kind  master;  but  only 
a  few  months  were  passed  when  some  thing 
else  offered,  which  he  considered  far  more 
desirable,  and  without  staying  to  consult  me 
upon  a  point  to  which  he  trusted  to  gain  my 
approval  afterward,  he  removed  himself  from 
the  place  of  his  first  engagement,  to  a  more 
extensive   establishment  in  the   large   town 

of ,  about  thirty  miles  distant.    When 

I  was  made  acquainted  with  this,  it  was  too 
late  to  remedy  it,  and  it  was  but  doubling 
my  anxiety  for  him,  by  doubling  his  exposure 
to  evil. 

**But  I  have  already  detained  you  too 
long  with  these  particulars;    I  will  hasten 


tm 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


87 


hing,   do 

in  silent 

•y  Tvhere 

to   His 

tisfaction 
r  his  em- 
cautions 
pleasing 
J  favor  of 
ite  a  val- 
but  only 
me  thing 
far  more 
nsult  me 
gain  my 
iself  from 
3  a  more 
rge   town 
t.    When 
t  was  too 
doubling 
exposure 

you   too 
ill  hasten 


over  the  ground  of  my  cares  and  sorrows. 
From  year  to  year  his  visits  home  became 
less  and  less  frequent,  not  so  much  that  busi- 
ness detained  him,  as  that,  which  I  had 
feared,  the  strong  influences  and  temptations 
presented  by  such  intercourse  with  the 
world,  unguarded  by  love  to  God,  had  des- 
troyed gradually  in  his  susceptible  heart 
his  attachments  to  home,  and  love  for  its  sure 
restraints;  these  I  knew  were  first  to  yield, 
and  too  fatally  and  too  surely  foretell  the 
destructive  spread  of  vice,  which  then,  with 
small  beginnings,  breaks  in  upon  the  soul.*' 


CHAPTER  VI. 

**  Although  Dennis  has  often  quenched  in 
his  bosom  the  tender  strivings  of  the  Spirit, 
which  1  know  have  been  there,  yet  God  has 
not  been  infaithful  to  His  promise  or  unmind- 
ful of  my  prayers,  in  that  His  hand  has  been 
stretched  out  still,  ksstraining  him  from  heavy 


•I'HI 


.M 


•:* 


88 


THE  WIDOW  S  JEWELS. 


m 


'in  ' ' 


''-^K 


sins.  He  knows,  /  do  not,  the  amount  of 
guilt  which  may  be  resting  upon  his  spirit  in 
His  sight  —  but  from  out  breaking  wicked- 
ness He  has  preserved  him.  Never  has  he 
utterly  fallen;  though,  O,  the  last  time  I  saw 
him,  but  for  the  whispered  voice,  '  trust  thou 
in  God,'  my  faith  would  have  failed  concern- 
ing him. 

**  Often  he  has  removed  from  place  to 
place,  and  changed  from  plan  to  plan, 
as  fancy  inclined;  and  now  upwards  of  two 
years  have  passed  away  sinc^e  his  last  visit  to 
my  home.  During  that  time  I  have  received 
but  one  letter  from  him,  nor  have  I  been  in 
any  way  informed  by  him  of  his  employment 
or  place  of  residence.  A  th'vusand  fears, 
which  it  was  torture  to  indulge,  have  arisen 
in  my  mind,  but  I  can  only  say,  though  often, 
as  now,  with  tears — 'God  is  my  portion! 
and  there  is  no  unrighteousness  in  Him.' 
In  his  early  infancy,  my  departed  husband 
and  I  presented  him  in  baptism,  to  receive 
the  covenant  mercy  of  God.  Our  prayers  at 
that  hour  are  on  record  for  him,  and  one  glo- 
rified spirit,  I  doubt  not,  now  watches  about 
him;    above  all  —  the   ministrations   of  the 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


89 


lount  of 
spirit  in 
wicked- 
has  he 
le  I  saw 
ust  thou 
joncern- 

tlace    to 

0  plan, 
3  of  two 
t  visit  to 
received 
been  in 
iloyment 
d  fears, 
3  arisen 
rh  often, 
portion! 

1  Him.' 
husband 

receive 
ayers  at 

one  glo- 
;s  about 
1   of  the 


Holy  Ghost,  and  the  intercessions  of  Christ 
are,  I  must  hope,  still  his,  and  if  with  all 
these  he  perish  —  he  will  perish  —  God  is 
just.' 

**  And  now,"  added  Mrs.  Brooks,  after  a 
pp.use  in  which  great  composure  rested  upon 
her,  **You  look  so  friendly,  and  have  taken 
so  much  interest  in  an  old  stranger  woman's 
troubles,  I  wish  to  ask  another  favor  of  you ; 
I  expect  a  trying  scene  to-night,  and  perhaps 
I  may  be  glad  of  some  kind  attention  when — 
Will  you  please  to  remain  with  me  a  little 
longer,  until  it  is  passed?" 

*'Most  certainly,"  responded  the  young 
lady,  grieved  that  another  sorrow  awaited 
the  aged,  pious  woman. 

** Three  days  ago,"  continued  she,  ''I  ac- 
cidentally, rather  I  would  say  providentially , 

heard  that  Dennis  was  in  B ,  where  he 

has  enlisted  in  the  service  of  the  United 
States,  as  a  soldier  during  the  war  now  going 
on  against  the  Indians  in  Florida;  and  that 
he  is  waiting  here  a  few  days  until  the  expe- 
dition shall  be  made  up,  when  they  expect  to 
leave  at  once. 

8* 


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90 


THE  WIDOW  S  JEWELS. 


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**I  feel,  my  young  friend,"  said  she, 
**  that  I  cannot,  cannot  bear  it.  I  could  con- 
seTit  to  the  separation  from  him,  I  could  be- 
come reconciled  to  the  prospect  of  danger  to 
him,  even  that  he  should  there  fall  into  an 
unknown  grave,  if  it  were  necessary,  if  it 
were  for  the  purpose  of  doing  good,  but  that 
he  should  thus  go  away  in  sin,  to  sin  and 
danger,  takes  away  my  courage  indeed! 

**I  have  therefore  come  that  I  may  see 
him  once  more,  and  yet  too,  secretly  hoping 
that  he  may  consent  to  abandon  the  design. 
I  scarcely  dared  admit  the  expectation  of 
finding  him  in  this  large  city,  where  so  many 
are  daily  coming  and  going  —  but  I  could 
not  content  myself  without  making  this  one, 
perhaps  last  effort,  for  my  dear  son.  I 
looked  upward  to  the  great  Watchman  of 
the  city  —  the  Shepherd  of  His  people,  and 
trusted  He  would  direct  me. 

'*The  kind,  good  man  who  called  a  while 
ago  8nd  spoke  with  me,  was  one  of  the  pas- 
sengers with  us  to-day;  I  never  saw  him  be- 
fore, but  he  has  been  a  good  son  to  some 
body,  no  doubt.     I  liked  him  well;  and  when 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


91 


id  she, 
nld  con- 
mid  be- 
inger  to 
into  an 


U: 


if  it 


but  that 
sin  and 
ed! 

may  see 
'  hoping 
design, 
at  ion  of 
30  many 
I  could 
his  one, 
son.  I 
iman  of 
)le,  and 

a  while 
he  pas- 
him  be- 
to  some 
d  when 


I  found  he  belonged  i.ere,  I  inquired  of  him 
what  would  be  my  best  course  to  find  a 
young  man  by  the  name  of  Brooks,  who  had 
enlisted,  and  was  waiting  here  to  go  to 
Florida.  I  think  he  felt  as  if  I  were  in 
trouble,  and  said,  in  words  so  pleasant  to 
my  ears,  that  he  could  doubtless  very  soon 
ascertain  for  mo  about  him,  on  application  at 
their  place  of  'rendezvous,'  in  some  street 
he  mentioned,  and  that  if  I  wished  him  to  do 
so,  he  would  go  at  once  on  our  arrival  in 
town,  and  bring  me  word  again  of  whatever 
he  could  learn  concerning  him.  I  thanked 
him  in  the  best  manner  I  could,  but  tvords 
were  nothing  —  he  little  knew  the  value  to 
me  of  that  offer.  May  God  do  by  him  as  he 
has  done  by  me  —  be  his  friend  in  an  hour 
of  trouble ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  hours  since  the  early  darkness  of  ev- 
ening came  on,  had  indeed  been  long  ones  to 
Mrs.  Brooks;  she  had  been  momentarily  ex- 


i 
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M 


m\ 


mi 


92 


THE  WIDOW'S  JEWELS. 


'M  t 


pecting  the  footsteps  of  her  son,  and  now  the 
evening  v  is  near  its  close  and  ho  had  not  yet 
appeared.  Having  completed  the  relation  of 
her  so  TOWS,  she  sat  in  silent  waiting,  her 
head  leant  upon  her  hand,  looking  with  tear- 
ful eyes  into  the  fire.  The  many  city  bella 
rung  out  their  accustomed  announcement  of 
the  hour  of  nine —  a  few  moments  more,  and 
footsteps  were  heard  approaching  through 
the  long  avenue  towards  the  apartment,  the 
door  was  opened  by  a  servant,  and  two 
young  men,  dressed  in  military  uniform, 
stepped  into  the  room. 

They  were  nearly  of  the  same  size  and 
ar^pearance.  One,  glancing  his  black  eyes 
tjuickly  around  the  room,  advanced  a  step  or 
two,  throwing  back  his  head  as  he  took  off 
his  hat,  passed  his  fingers  two  or  three  times 
hastily  through  his  hair,  hemmed  and  seemed 
gathering  resolution  to  go  through  some  un- 
pleasant scene  carelessly.  The  other  re- 
mained still  near  the  door.  Mrs.  Brooks 
slowly  rose  from  her  seat  as  she  turned  to- 
wards them,  and  fixing  upon  them  both  an 
uncertain  gaze,  for  an  instant  scarcely  com- 
prehending their  appearance,  or  recognizing 


her  son 
her  am 
speak  8 
bosom, 
Denn 
childho( 
tions  foi 
grant  a 
still.     I 
tear,  as 
was  as 
would   1 
an  impc 
moral 
yielded 
him  ba 
Again 
manner 
wholly 
quickly 
bad! 
again  i 
with  yi 
think  o 
lead  yc 


Ih' 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


93 


her  son  in  the  unexpected  costume  —  threw 
her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  unable  to 
speak  a  word,  laid  her  aged  head  upon  his 
bosom,  sobbing  and  weeping  like  a  child. 

Dennis  became  very  pale;  the  scenes  of 
childhood,  and  its  rememb'^rod  sweet  affec- 
tions for  a  moment  rushed  i  him,  like  fra- 
grant airs  upon  the  desei  '  Vft  it  desert 
still.  Looking  silently  dc  on  her,  each 
tear,  as  it  coursed  over  her  furrowed  cheek, 
was  as  an  arrow  piercing  his  heart,  gladly 
would  he  have  kissed  them  away;  it  was 
an  important  moment,  a  turning  point  in  his 
moral  history  —  he  checked  himself  and 
yielded  to  an  influence  which  strangely  kept 
him  back  from  any  natural  tribute  of  love. 
Again  hemming,  and  assuming  a  careless 
manner,  which  seemed  to  have  the  effect 
wholly  to  freeze  over  his  heart,  he  said 
quickly,  *'  Come,  come,  mother,  this  is  too 
bad!  don't  be  so  childish!  come  sit  down 
again  in  your  chair.  I  suppose  you  are  tired 
with  your  long  ride.  I  wonder  you  should 
think  of  coming  such  a  journey;  here,  let  me 
lead  you  to  your  seat." 


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94 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


The  old  lady  yielded,  as  with  one  arm 
around  her,  he  supported  her  back  to  the 
chair,  then  overpowered  with  emotion,  she 
sank  into  it,  trembling  and  weeping  bit- 
terly. For  a  short  time  the  stillness  of  the 
room  was  only  interrupted  by  the  sobs  of 
the  afflicted  mother.  Dennis  drew  a  chair 
and  sat  down  beside  her;  he  looked  perplexed 
and  annoyed,  but  not  grieved  —  the  strong 
feelings  of  affection  which  had  occupied  his 
soul  in  early  life,  were  now  chilled  and 
blighted  by  a  hand  whose  touch  is  more  fatal 
than  the  touch  of  death  —  the  hand  of  sin. 

''Don't,  mother!  do  not  yield  so  much  to 
your  feelings,"  said  he,  almost  impatiently, 
**  I  did  n't  expect  it  of  you.  Come  don't, 
you  will  make  yourself  sick,  and  make  me 
miserable!  " 

Still  agitated,  and  unable  yet  to  control  her 
emotions,  she  spoke  not,  but  leaned  her  head 
upon  his  shoulder,  as  he  sat  reclined  towards 
her.  Dennis  was  again  silent,  and  tried  to 
look  indifferently  about,  carelessly  put  back 
a  lock  of  white  hair  from  his  mother's  fore- 
head as  it  escaped  from  under  her  cap,  and 


T 


'W 


one  arm 
ck  to  the 
otion,  she 
sping  bit- 
ess  of  the 
e  sobs  of 
w  a  chair 
perplexed 
he  strong 
;upied  his 
illed  and 
more  fatal 
1  of  sin. 
[)  much  to 
patiently, 
me  don't, 
make  me 

sntrol  her 
her  head 
d  towards 
1  tried  to 
put  back 
er's  fore- 
cap,  and 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


95 


smiled  upon  his  companion,  who  was  still 
standing  by  the  door,  with  a  nod  motioned 
him  towards  a  seat,  raised  his  eyebrows  sig- 
nificantly, and  smiled  again. 

"Come,  mother,**  said  he,  ** really  I 
thought  you  would  have  been  like  yourself 
again  before  this  time  —  it  is  too  bad,  now; 
any  body  would  suppose  I  am  the  worst  per- 
son in  the  world,  to  see  you  crying  so  over 
me.  Why  I  thought  you  would  have  been 
glad  to  see  me  after  so  long  a  time;'*  and  his 
voice  faltered  upon  the  last  words  of  the  sen- 
tence. The  old  lady  sobbed  more  deeply, 
and  Dennis  rose  roughly  and  walked  quickly 
back  and  forth  through  the  room,  then  looked 
at  his  watch  with  increasing  vexation.  Mrs. 
Brooks  raised  her  head,  and  with  strong  ef- 
fort recovering  herself,  said  gently,  **  Come 
back,  my  son,  come  and  sit  again  by  my  side; 
I  have  some  things  to  say  to  you.** 

**You  will  have  to  say  them  quick,  then," 
replied  he  with  an  oath,  forgetting  himself  in 
his  haste  and  anger;  "it  is  half-past  nine 
now,  I  must  be  back  at  ten  to  be  with  our 
company  when  the  roll  is  called." 


M'\ 


'Mr. 


m 


"€ 


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M'i 


m 


*;: 


96 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


His  mother  had  cast  a  look  of  lofty  re- 
proach upon  him  as  he  uttered  to  her  the  sin- 
ful imprecation,  but  that  look  of  reproach 
melted  away  to  one  of  despairing  affection 
and  sorrow,  at  the  words  with  which  he  had 
finished  the  sentence.  '*  Dennis,  O  Dennis, 
is  it  so — have  you  really"  —  her  tongue 
could  not  speak  the  dreaded  word. 

**  Yes,  it  is  so,  mother;"  said  he,  forcing  a 
laugh,  *'  I  have  really  enlisted.  Bless  me!  I 
want  to  know  i^that  is  what  has  been  troub- 
ling you  so  to-night!  Ha,  ha  —  that  beats  all, 
now — just  because  I  have  enlisted  —  O,  ha 
ha!" 

**What  could  induce  you  to  do  so,  Den- 
nis?" said  she  emphatically. 

"What  could  induce  me? — O I  don't  know," 
replied  he — *'fun  I  'ippose,  or  change, — 
any  thing.  I  am  tirec  every  body  and  every 
thing.  I  don't  c^et  along  well  with  any  thing 
I  undertake  but  a  little  while  at  a  time,  so  I 
thought  I'd  ivy  this.  Three  years  isn't  a  great 
while;  Fred  will  see  to  you,  I  suppose,  he 
hasn't  much  else  to  do;  and  it  is  not  very 
likely  you  will  care  if  I  do  go." 


lofty  re- 
r  the  sin- 
reproach 
affection 
;h  he  had 
)  Dennis, 
r  tongue 

forcing  a 
3SS  me!  I 
en  troub- 
beats  all, 
«  — O,  ha 

so,  Den- 

I'tknow," 
ihange, — 
and  every 
any  thing 

ime,  so  I 
I't  agreat 
)pose,  he 

not  very 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


97 


**  Come  and  sit  down  here,  Dennis  ^  I  can- 
not talk  with  you  while  you  are  pacing  the 
floor  so.  There  now,  keep  quiet,  look  at 
me;  you  shall  leave  in  time  to  be  back  at  the 
hour,  but  I  must  say  a  few  words  to  you  noty." 
Dennis  sat  down,  and  Mrs.  Brooks  proceeded 
to  converse  with  a  mother's  dignity  and  a 
mother's  sorrow,  blended  with  a  Christian's 
calmness. 

**It  is  but  three  days,"  said  she,  **  since 
I  heard  any  thing  of  you  or  your  present 
plan,  Dennis,  and  then  I  scarcely  believed 
it  could  be  true,  yet  I  feared  so  much  the 
possibility  of  it,  that  I  hastened  to  leave 
home,  pnd  seek  to  find  you,  that  I  might 
dissuade  you  from  going;  O  if  you  could 
know  how  my  heart  is  bleeding  at  the 
thought!" 

**  Nonsense,  mother,  nonsense!"  inter- 
rupted he  again,  impatient;  **  Why  should 
your  heart  bleed  at  thought  of  that  ?  I  did 
not  expect  you  would  feel  so,  or  even  take  it 
hard  at  all  when  you  should  come  to  hear  of 
it.  For  my  part,- 1  am  sorry  you  have  given 
yourself  the  trouble  of  two  days' journey  for 
nothing  —  that's  all.  It's  true  I  am  glad 
9 


lit 


m 


I.  id 


ilfv! 

i ' 
I.!-'     1 

I  : 

j 

],! 
\r 


w\ 


98 


THE  WIDOW  S  JEWELS. 


to  see  you  again,  but  then  1  can't  do  any 
thing  about  giving  it  up  now.  We  are  to  go 
next  week." 

Mrs.  Brook's  heart  almost  ilied  within  her 
at  his  decided  and  indifferent  manner.  Pale- 
ness passed  across  her  brow,  and  her  lips 
quivered.  Dennis  gazed  at  her  a  moment, 
and  tried  to  speak  playfully. 

**  Upon  my  word,  mother,"  said  he,  "you 
are  very  much  changed,  certainly  very  much ; 
why,  yesterday  I  was  thinking  I  wished  I 
had  a  heart  as  heroic  as  your's  used  to  be; 
but,  fact,  I  would 'nt  exchange  with  you 
now;  a  **  bleeding  heart  "  would  be  a  bad 
bargain  for  me  to  take  to  Florida  with  me. 
Ha,  ha,  I  suppose  you  are  afraid  some  tall, 
old  Indian  will  shoot  me,  and  then  I  shall 
never  come  back  to  the  little  farm  again; 
isnt  that  it,  mother?" 

*' And  you  a.re  very  much  changed,  Den- 
nis," said  Mrs.  Brooks,  repeating  his  words 
in  a  different  tone  of  voice.  **  Age  and  sor- 
row have  doubtless  added  infirmities,  and 
wrought  some  change  in  me  since  those  happy 
days  when  we  dwelt  together  at  home;  but 
what,  Dennis,   has  wrought   this  change  in 


'■I 
il  , 


*t  do  any 
are  to  go 

i^ithin  her 

jr.     Pale- 

I  her  lips 

moment, 

he,  **  you 
Bry  much; 

wished  I 
3ed  to  be; 

with  you 
)e    a   bad 

with  me. 
some  tall, 
m  I  shall 
'm  again; 

^ed,  Den- 
his  words 
e  and  sor- 
ities,  and 
lose  happy 
lome;  but 
change  in 


DENNIS    BR00K8. 


99 


you,  since  the  dear  time  when  you  used  to 
sit  dutifully  and  affectionately  to  listen  to  my 
wishes.  Years  have  passed,  it  is  true,  but  I 
can  hardly  realize  their  flight;  it  seems  but 
yesterday." 

**  O,  donH  talk  about  the  past,  mother,  that's 
done  and  gone;  besides,  I  kate  to  hear  about 
that.  You  need  not  think  /  am  changed 
much;  I  love  you  now,  and  am  very  glad 
you  have  not  forgotten  me.  So  keep  up 
good  spirits.  To  be  sure,  I  can't  give 
up  going  into  the  war,  but  there's  no 
danger,  none  at  all  —  or  not  much,  at  any 
rate.  In  three  years,  perhaps,  I  shall  come 
back,  it  may  be  a  captain  or  a  general,  ard 
then  I  can  settle  down  with  you  upon  the  old 
farm,  as  snug  as  you  please.'' 

**  Dennis,  three  years  is  but  little  compared 
with  seventy;  but  when  like  myself  one  has 
lived  through  seventy  years,  three  more  is  a 
long,  uncertain  space  of  time ;  and  probably 
when  that  is  passed,  should  your  life  be  pre- 
served amid  the  many  dangers  to  which  you 
go,  and  you  be  permitted  to  return  to  your 
native  home,  I  shall  have  gone  to  the  long 
home  towards  which  I  am  now  looking  with 


i!t 


m 


3hiu 


I'M- 


If!. 


'II 


m 


mi 


ill 


I'iii 


100 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


anticipations   of   delight.       I    have   always 
hoped  that  you,  Dennis^  whose   infant  head 
slumbered   last    upon  my   bosom^  would  be 
with  me  in  my  latest  years,  and  that  your  hand 
would  be  pressed  upon  my  dying  eyes; — that 
hope  I  can  indulge  no  more.     But  it  is  not 
this  which  so  grieves  me  now,  nor  the  dread 
alone,  that  in  a  fatal  moment  you  may  fall 
before  some  deadly  shot,  or  by  some  fierce 
disease;   no,    not   these;  but,  Dennis,   it   is 
because  you  go  uncalled  by  duty ;  it  is  be- 
cause you  are  entering  into  the  work  of  sin; 
that  you  will  be  there   associated  with  the 
lowest  and  most  vicious  of  society;  removed 
far  from  the  means  of  grace,  forgetting,  but, 
I  trust,  not  forgotten  of  God.     Did  he  call 
you,  O  Dennis;  did  He  who  gave  you  being 
call  you  to  go  forth  to  distant  scenes,  to  im- 
minent   danger    or   to   certain   death,    how 
cheerfully  could  1  bid  you  adieu.     We  should 
yet  meet  again  in  that  near,    happy  world 
above;  but  now  it  is  not  so.     You  go  to  take 
up  arms   against   a   long  wronged   and  still 
persecuted  people,  who  have  never  molested 
you,   and  who  would  gladly  have  dwelt  in 
Christian  peace  and  love  with  us,  upon  soil 


always 
ant  head 
i^ould   be 
our  hand 
s; — that 
it  is  not 
he  dread 
may  fall 
ne  fierce 
lis,   it   is 
it  is  be- 
lt of  sin ; 
with  the 
removed 
ting,  but, 
1  he  call 
ou  being 
s,  to  im- 
ith,    how 
Te  should 
py  world 
o  to  take 
and  still 
molested 
dwelt  in 
ipon  soil 


DENNIS    BROOKS. 


101 


rightfully  their  own;  and  God,  the  righteous 
Avenger  of  the  oppressed,  looks  not  upon 
such  guilt  with  indifference.  His  wrath  de- 
lays, btit  it  slumbers  not ;  O  Dennis,  I  can- 
not bear  that  you  should  come  under  its  ter- 
rible shadow.  Can  you  not  return  with  me 
to  our  peaceful  home?  Can  you  not,  at  least, 
give  up  the  resolution  of  going?  If  we  separ- 
ate thus,  my  son,  I  fear  it  will  be  a  separa- 
tion increasing  to  all  eternity.  O  Dennis, 
are  you  not  yet  **  ready  to  choose  God  as 
your  Friendf  your  portion?" 

Dennis  hesitated,  looked  at  his  watch, 
arose  to  leave  —  paused  —  turned  again  — 
promised  to  meet  his  mother  in  the  morning, 
and  departed. 

That  night  was  a  sleepless  one  to  Mrs. 
Brooks,  but  its  silent  watches  witnessed  her 
strong  intercessions  to  God  on  ^v>^half  of  her 
son.  The  next  morning  was  the  holy  Sab- 
bath. Hour  after  hour  she  awaited  Dennis' 
coming,  but  noon  passed  away,  night  came 
on,  and  still  he  disappointed  her  expectations. 
In  the  evening  she  despatched  a  messenger 
for  him,  who  only  returned  with  word  that 

Dennis  would  remember  his  promise  on  the 
9* 


II 
■i 


iii' 


'111' 


II 


m 


t. 


102 


THE   WIDOW  S  JEW£I.S. 


morrow.  And  Mrs.  Brooks  saw  him  no  more. 
When  the  morrow  came,  he  with  his  band 
of  associates  were  early  on  their  way  to- 
wards the  frontiers  of  Florida. 

Years  have  since  gone  by,  but  Dennis'  fate 
is  unknown.  Whether  he  is  still  some  where 
an  outcast  wanderer,  or  whether  in  that  cruel 
contest  he  fell  a  victim  to  Indian  revenge;  or 
in  some  other  way  met  the  punishment  of  a 
disregard  of  God's  word  and  calls,  and  diso- 
bedience to  parental  advice,  cannot  be  told; 
no  inquiry  could  ascertain  concerning  him. 
He  who  watches  to  reward  the  good,  and  to 
visit  the  evil,  knows  all  his  history,  and  will 
bring  him  forth  in  the  morning  of  the  Resur- 
rection—  then  again  to  remember  the  past 
—  then  again  to  meet  that  pious  mother  in 
robes  rendered  more  glorious  by  her  fervent 
watchings  and  prayers  for  him  —  and  the 
guardian  spirit  of  his  father  —  and  God,  the 
Judge  of  all.  O,  what  then  will  he  an- 
swer, when  the  dutiful  and  the  undutiful  are 
clearly  revealed? 


THE  DEAD  ALIVE: 


A   TRUE    NARRATIVE. 

WRITTEN  BT  MRS.  PICKARD,  THOUGH  NOT  DESIGNED 

FOR  THIS  WORK. 


IV 


•  iiii; 


I 


At  the  close  of  one  of  the  coldest  days  in 
the  winter  of  1835,  an  old  lady  called  at  our 
house  to  pass  the  night.     She  had  come  that 

day  from  B ,  in  the  southern  part  of 

this  State, —  was  cold,  fatigued  and  hungry, 
having  tasted  no  food  since  she  left  her  own 
desoLite  home. 

Upon  entering  the  room,  I  was  attracted 
by  her  appearance.  Sixty-five  years  could 
scarcely  have  told  the  length  of  her  life's 
pilgrimage,  yet  she  seemed  afflicted  with  few 
of  the  infirmities  usually  attendant  upon  such 
age.  Her  dress,  somewhat  fanciful,  was  of 
Scotch  plaid,  and  the  large  bright  checks  of 
scarlet,  green  and  black,  made  rather  an  un- 
becoming contrast  with  the  deep  traces  that 


fM 


¥ 


•f 


'M 


I}' 


■  i    fM 


H 


104 


THE    WIDOW  S    JEWELS. 


time  had  graven  on  her  face;  her  little 
starched  cap,  in  full  trim,  set  up  daintily ;  and 
the  high  heeled  shoes  which  she  had  dipped 
from  her  feet,  were  lying,  toe  to  toe,  at  pru- 
dent distance  from  the  fire;  all  seemed  the 
carefully  preserved  relics  of  former  taste  and 
years. 

As  she  drew  up  her  small  figure  more 
erectly  in  the  chair,  and  glanced  her  black 
eyes  familiarly  around  the  apartment,  I 
thought  I  had  never  seen  the  face  of  years 
so  bright  with  animation;  as  if  she  had  either 
never  known  the  many  disappointments  al- 
lotted for  the  threescore  years  and  ten  —  or 
that  such  trials  had  been  happily  forgotten; 
her  whole  countenance,  indeed,  indicated 
that  she  had  just  set  out  in  life  with  new 
hopes  —  new  joys. 

Afler  she  had  taken  supper,  I  drew  my 
seat  towards  her,  and  she  soon  revealed  to 
me  the  following  simple  story.  I  will  en- 
deavor to  ''tell  the  tale  as  'twas  told  to  me." 


**  In  the    northern   part   of  the   State  of 
Maine,  in  the  small  town  of ,  I  lived 


THE    DEAD    AMVE. 


105 


er  little 
:ily;  and 
d  clipped 
,  at  pru- 
imed  the 
taste  and 

re  more 
er  black 
ment,  I 
of  years 
ad  either 
nents  al- 
ten  —  or 
)rgotten; 
ndicated 
i^ith  new 

drew  my 

'ealed  to 

will  en- 

I  to  me." 


State  df 
,  I  lived 


many  years  with  my  hunband.  We  had  no 
family,  and  hard  work  enough  it  was  upon  a 
poor  farm  which  scarcely  paid  for  tilliiig,  to 
get  an  honest  livelihood. 

**My  husband  was  always  poor,  and  almost 
always  unfortunate.  I  would  not  be  ungrate- 
ful, but  Providence  did  not  smile  upon  him, 
so  we  almost  thought,  as  upon  those  who 
needed  his  smiles  much  less.  Yet  I  can  now 
look  back  and  see  it  was  all  for  the  best.  I 
was  not  a  Christian  then,  though  my  husband 
was.  His  health  was  very  poor,  and  with  an 
aching  heart  I  have  often  watched  him  from 
the  window  of  our  home,  raking  the  scanty 
hay,  or  hoeing  the  sandy  loam.  I've  seen 
him  lean  upon  some  tree,  to  wipe  the  sweat 
from  his  pale  forehead,  and  his  wearied  arms 
would  fall  heavily  beside  his  trembling  body. 
And  sometimes  as  he  came  in  he  would  say, 
*  If  it  were  not  for  you,  Nelly,  and  the  baby 
which  Heaven  has  given  us,  how  glad  I 
should  be  to  go  to  my  rest  —  or>  if  it  might 
please  Him,  to  call  us  all  together! ' 

**But  such  was  not  His  will.  Ere  our 
baby  had  passed  its  first  year,  my  husband 
did  go  to  his  rest.     He  left  me  peaceful  in 


I 


Hi! 


'f'-IJ  - 


106 


THE    widow's    jewels. 


God,  yet  'sorrowing,*  as  he  said,  *fop  the 
lonely  walk  which  might  be  mine,* — and  O, 
how  lonely  it  has  been!  —  *  before  we  should 
sit  down  together  in  our  Father's  kingdom.* 

'*  Six  years  I  struggled  on  with  my  little 
boy  desiring  nothing  for  myself,  but  much 
for  him;  and  a  brighter  lad  than  John  you 
never  saw.  But  my  health  failed  at  last,  and 
unable)  longer  to  maintain  us  both,  I  con- 
cluded to  put  him  out  to  work  as  well  as  he 
could,  (and  he  was  quite  handy ,)  to  some 
farmer. 

**For  some  time  I  heard  of  no  one  who 
would  take  so  young  a  boy.  At  lengt^  Mr. 
'Lijah  Baker,  a  miller,  happened  in  the  place 
on  business,  who  lived  about  fifteen  miles  from 
there;  hearing  of  me,  he  called  where  I  was, 
and  agreed  to  take  Johnny  home  with  him. 
As  he  had  never  been  to  school  any,  Mr. 
Baker  promised  to  send  him  three  months  of 
the  year,  till  he  was  ten  years  old,  on  con- 
clition  that  till  then  I  would  furnish  him  with 
a  new  hat  and  pair  of  shoes  once  a  year. 

''I  could  have  but  little  information  of  the 
man*s  character,  yet,  as  it  was  the  only  way 
before  me,  I  consented  to  let  him  go. 


m 


•4; 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE. 


107 


'for  the 
-and  O, 
e  should 
igdom.* 
my  little 
ut  much 
bhn  you 
last,  and 
,  I  con- 
ill  as  he 
to   some 

one  who 
igt*^  Mr. 
the  place 
tiles  from 
re  I  was, 
^ith  him. 
iny,  Mr. 
nonths  of 
on  con- 
him  with 
year. 
3n  of  the 
only  way 


**  Bitter  was  the  hour  of  our  parting.     He 
had  always  been  a  good  boy,  and  was  all  the 
world  to  me  —  my  daily  companion,  my  only, 
affectionate  little   son.      Now  in   his   clean 
clothes,    his   light   glossy   hair    parted    and 
brushed  one  side  —  though  his  round  blue 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  yet  he  never  looked  so 
well,  or  seemed  so  dear  to  me  before.     He 
clasped  his  little  arms  tight  around  my  neck; 
— really,  I  was  more  a  child  than  him,  for  I 
sobbed  and  wept  —  I  could  hear   his   little 
heart  beat  quickly,  as  he  tried  to  comfort  me. 
'Mother,  don't  cry  so,' said  he,  *I  will  be 
good.     I  shall  soon  be  old  enough  to  earn 
some  money,  and  ycu  shall  have  it  all.     I 
will  buy  you  some  glasses,  and  then  you  can 
sew  in  the  evening.     And  I  will  get  you  a 
pound  of  tea.     Eben  Wood  loved   me ;    he 
will  hold  the  thread  for  you  to  wind,  and  pick 
up  chips  for  you  now,  sometimes,  I  guess.' 

**But  the  moment  came  for  him  to  leave. 
I  looked  upon  them  as  the  wagon  rolled  out 
of  the  yard  and  jolted  slowly  up  the  hill,  and 
watched  them  till  the  top  of  his  little  blue 
cap  disappeared,  as  they  descended  the  other 
side  of  the  hill;  and  then  I  entered  the  house 
and  wept  anew. 


^' 


& 


!.l! 


i'!i' 


108 


THE    WIDOW  S   JEWELS. 


**  I  could  not  afford  to  ride,  so  when  the 
year  came  round,  I  walked  to  Mr.  Baker's  to 
see  my  boy,  with  the  shoes  and  hat.  My 
spirits  were  never  lighter,  or  my  steps  more 
nimble,  than  while  on  my  way;  they  were 
less  SD  coming  home,  perhaps,  but  I  could 
have  gone  any  distance  to  meet  him  —  my 
heart  was  very  tender  for  him.  I  found  him 
well,  and  a  good  boy  still. 

**The  second  year  I  went,  and  he  was 
much  improved.  His  kind  feelings  made 
him  a  little  gentleman  to  every  body  and 
everything.  He  would  not  give  a  moment's 
pain  to  bird  or  chicken,  bug  or  fly.  And 
every  body  loved  John. 

**  The  third  year  I  went.  He  was  ten 
years  old  that  day  —  it  was  the  nineteenth  of 
June.  It  was  dark  when  I  came  to  the  house. 
No  person  or  creature  was  in  the  yard  —  no 
light  gleamed  from  the  windows.  I  knocked, 
then  opened  the  door  —  all  was  dark  and 
empty;  there  was  no  sound,  but  the  crickets 
chirping  in  the  hearth,  and  the  wind  rustling 
in  an  apple  tree  behind  the  house.  Turning 
away,  I  came  and  stood  by  the  stream ;  the 
water  still  poured   over  the   dam,  but   the 


I  1 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE. 


109 


hen  the 
ker's  to 
|at.  My 
\)3  more 
y  were 
I  could 
m  —  my 
und  him 

he  was 
^s  made 
ody  and 
noment's 

ly.     And 

was  ten 
teenth  of 
le  house, 
ird  —  no 
(nocked, 
lark  and 

crickets 

rustling 
Turning 
!am;  the 

but   the 


wheek  f  the  mill  were  motionless.  Sitting 
down  upon  a  log,  T  wept. 

**It  was  a  mile  to  any  neighbor's  house. 
Overcome  with  fatigue,  I  could  scarcely 
rise,  yet  the  thought  that  he  might  be  there 
encouraged  me,  and  I  walked  on. 

**  The  people  seemed  kii*d,  pitied  my  sor- 
row, but  knew  nothing  of  my  son.  They 
said  Mr.  Baker  had  failed,  and  left  the 
town  suddenly — no  one  knew  where  he  was 
gone.  I  went  from  place  to  place,  and  wore 
out  three  pair  of  new  shoes  in  search  of  him. 
Once  I  traced  him  to  Newport,  and  learned 
that  a  man  had  there  put  such  a  boy  on  board 
a  vessel  to  go  to  France ;  but  could  ascertain 
nothing  more,  and  returned  home  broken- 
hearted. 

**Two  years  passed  away.  Unable  to 
support  myself — without  money  and  without 
friends  —  but  one  thing  remained  for  me.     I 

went  to  B ,  and  cast  myself  upon  the 

provision  of  the  State,  and  became  an  honest, 
industrious  inmate  of  the  alms  house. 

**  Year  after  year  came  and  went,  without 
bringing  me  any  tidings  of  my '  son.  I 
10 


4 


I'  1 


ill; 
m 


'.'Ifl 


*' 


110 


THE  widow's  jewels. 


learned  to  live  without  him,  and  only  thought 
of  him  as  a  spirit  in  Heaven. 

**  I  became  tired  of  my  companions  in  the 
poor  housCf  and  hired  of  Mr.  Ford,  our  over- 
seer, a  little  room  over  his  corn  house.  As 
it  was  of  no  use  to  him,  he  let  me  have  it  for 
sixpence  a  week.  The  State  allowed  me  but 
little  more  than  this  for  my  support;  how- 
ever, I  managed  to  get  along.  I  could  knit 
stockings  for  my  neighbors,  and  used  to 
gather  herbs  for  the  sick.  Besides,  I  did 
not  need  much  —  tea,  sugar,  coffee,  butter, 
and  such  like,  I  gave  up  long  ago.  Two 
meals  a  day  was  all  I  allowed  myself. 

**Cold  weather  was  rather  hard  upon  me, 
sometimes,  it  is  true ;  when  the  sleet  covered 
my  window,  and  the  loud  winds  shook  the 
building  around  me.  At  such  times,  when  I 
was  most  lonely,  the  image  of  my  little  John 
was  ever  present  with  me,  till  it  almost 
seemed  as  if  he  were  really  there,  sitting 
upon  his  low  stool  close  by  my  side,  rubbing 
his  thin  hands  (softly,  that  I  might  not  hear 
him)  to  keep  them  warm,  and  instructing  me 
into  the  plans  he  had  formed  for  taking  care 


h 


•«f5!>^'K 


%i' 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE. 


Ill 


thought 

IS  in  the 
ur  over- 
ise.  As 
,ve  it  for 
d  me  but 
rt;  how- 
•uld  knit 
used  to 
IS,  I  did 
I,  butter, 
o.  Two 
f. 

)oa  me, 
covered 
took  the 
when  I 
tie  John 
almost 
I  sitting 
rubbing 
tot  hear 
;ting  me 
ng  care 


of  me  when  I  should  be  old.  But  these 
thoughts  would  soon  vanish  and  give  place  to 
happiness  more  abiding.  The  widow's 
Friend  forgot  me  not.  His  smile  kindled 
gladness  in  my  room,  till  even  the  rough, 
knotted  boards  of  my  apartment  seemed  to 
join  in  praise  with  my  heart. 

''But  though  I  could  talk  without  ceasing 
of  his  mercies  to  me  —  for  such  words  are 
*  honey  to  my  taste  ' — yet  I  will  not  detain 
you.  I  will  tell  of  them  in  'the  general  as- 
sembly, and  church  of  the  first  born  in 
Heaven.' 

**  Seventeen  years  had  passed  away.  It 
was  just  a  week  to-night,  two  gentlemen 
came  to  Mr.  Ford's  about  eleven  o'clock  at 
night:  they  were  well  dressed,  fine  looking 
men  as  you  will  see  — with  a  handsome  horse 
and  chaise.  They  asked  if  Mrs.  Leonard 
was  there.  Mr.  Ford  pointed  them  to  where 
I  was,  said  I  was  probably  asleep,  and  in- 
vited them  to  stay  till  morning  with  him,  but 
one  of  them  replied  he  must  see  me  then  — 
that  he  was  my  son! 

"Mr.  Ford  came  over  with  them.     They 


i* 


112 


THE    WIDOW  S    JEWELS. 


knocked  at  my  door;  I  awoke,  wondering, 
and  let  ihem  in.  Wishing  to  see  if  I  would 
recognize  a  son  in  a  stranger,  they  merely 
bowed  as  they  passed  me,  requesting  permis- 
sion to  look  at  the  room,  talked  as  if  they 
proposed  buying  it,  occasionally  glancing 
towards  me,  as  I  was  sitting  wrapped  in  my 
old  cloak,  shivering,  upon  the  side  of  the  bed. 
I  thought  they  had  taken  a  strange  time  to 
purchase  a  building -— almost  midnight!  I 
had  heard  of  speculators^  and  of  their  being 
about  crazy  with  business,  and  concluded 
these  were  some  of  them. 

**  One  came  toward  me  and  asked  me  if  I 
lived  there  all  alone;  and  if  I  were  not  very 
lonesome.  I  replied,  I  had  been  so  at  first, 
but  was  now  accustomed  to  it.  He  then 
asked  me  if  I  had  no  family.  I  replied, 
*JVb»e.'  *  Have  you  never  had  any.^'  he 
asked.  This  was  always  a  hard  question  for 
me.  I  paused  a  moment  to  control  myself, 
and  could  only  say,  *  The  Lord  gave,  and 
the  Lord  hath  taken  them  away.*  No  one 
spoke.  I  looked  up — suddenly  the  bargain 
had  been  forgotten  —  tears  were  in  the  eyes 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE. 


113 


ondering, 
f  I  would 
jy  merely 
g  permis- 
as  if  they 
glancing 
ed  in  my 
f  the  bed. 
e  time  to 
Inight!  I 
eir  being 
concluded 

d  me  if  I 
)  not  very 
0  at  first, 
He  then 
[  replied, 
any  ?  *  he 
estion  for 
>1  myself, 
grave,  and 

No  one 
)  bargain 

the  eyes 


of  each.  One  of  them  turned  away  and 
leaned  over  the  fire-place,  while  the  other, 
(who  had  not  before  spoken  to  me,)  throwing 
his  arms  around  my  neck,  said  *  Mother  — 
mother —  I  am  your  little  Johnny!  *  " 

The  old  lady  wept,  and  said  to  me,  **  I  tell 
you  what,  I  felt  pretty  sinky.*' 

The  son,  since  he  was  ten  years  old,  had 
been  almost  constantly  at  sea;  what  little 
time  was  allowed  him  in  any  New  England 
port,  he  had  employed  searching  for  his 
mother,  but  knew  not  where  to  find  her  till 
now.  He  had  then  given  up  the  chances  of 
a  life  upon  the  deep,  and  established  himself 
in  business  in  S****  **#*#. 

**And  now,"  said  the  old  lady,  **I  am 
going,  and  expect  to  spend  my  days  with 
John.  I  think  I  am  not  unthankful  for  this 
great  blessing,  nor  have  forgotten  God, 
whose  love  and  providence  protected  my  boy 
in  a  world  full  of  danger^  and  has  made  my 
*  heart  sing  for  joy  '  because  *  my  son  was 
dead  and  is  alive  again,  was  lost  and  is 
found.* 

**  If  ever  you  should  go  to  S*^*"*  #**4t*#^ 


..<'»',,».!.  »*.*."W 


114 


THE    WIDOW'S   JEWELS. 


you  may  see  where  he  lives.  His  name  is 
John  Newton  Leonard  —  on  his  sign  it  is 
John  JV*.  Leonard,  but  his  name  is  John 
jyewton  Leonard." 


9  name  is 

sign  it  is 

is  John 


.iiii.KTs;:.-::-, 


